She reads it, Lizzie does,

and this letter I wrote her, she thinks,
is quite attractive.

I say, What good's imagination if it's not
new things to think to kiss, and how,
so I wrote, like:

I'd love to kiss your spleen—

and obviously not spleen, but places
you don't want your girlfriend's mother to see,
if, you know,
she's not entirely on the level;

sort of like, who the hell is this kid,
and why is he tasting my daughter?

It sounds kind of funny, but when she reads it,
the mom I mean, my kidneys basically shut down;
for all intents and purposes, they stop;
they no longer process or filter my body's waste at
this point, so I'm fucking dying—

the truth, I really, really
want her parents to like me.

Her father's an economic conservative, which,
I think, in Canada means liberal,
and I want him to think I'm a real potential,
a goddamn wunderkind and like me enough
to pour me wine I hate, and tell me,
You'll really savour this bottle;
that's a good year.

And now her mom says Lizzie's a slut, she's been having sex!
she trims her pubic hair so she's a little whore,
and Lizzie says,
The pill regulates my cycle,
and he's only my pen pal, my book buddy,
in fact he didn't even write that message,
a friend of mine did,
a friend with a disgusting sense of humour,

and you know what, Liz?
The whole time,
I just don't get why 19's too young to fuck.