Taking Off My Demon Shoes

Firstly the alligator belt has to go. The highly polished pearl handled pistol should not be on my slim hips in a kindergarten. I’m swearing of sugar and rum. Blue suede shoes were never that cool anyway, I have left several pairs at the back of a thrift shop with a five dollar bill. Wearing shades in February is not working for me anymore. I’ve taken off the tassels of my dude cowboy shirt. I have moved into Ohio filling every available space with my yellowing soul; have filed my fangs down to the size of gummy bears. We (my huge prosthetic breasts and I), have joined a Pentecostal church and now babble eloquently in an angelic tongue only fully known to rabid squirrels. Constant prayer has turned my **** eruptions into pure helium and am now gainfully employed blowing up party balloons in a local Dollar Store. When the good Lord calls me I will be found balancing precariously on the head of a pin at last fully masked and surgically prepared for my heavenly colonoscopy.