Dopy announcers strip naked accusations by their opponents. Nakedness is core to their aesthetic, with talk of waving penises and explanatory vaginas trickling over airwaves. Boiling over at times, soothing itself at others, everyone knows how to relax at just the miracle moment. I choose floozies because they are smarter than the self-appointed intellectuals. Floozies choose me for differing reasons. I am easily abused and exploited. For one with so little left to give they find so much to take. Take. Take. Take. In my sleep I hear them sing songs of taking me home, taking me to terrible temperatures. Songs like this have ghastly melodies, formidable education, audiences of little more than one. Songs like this go unheard on city streets, unknown in arenas, silent on radios. Swinging into themselves I hear songs of my captors, all through the nights, mimed through the days. They are wise beyond their appearances, minds constantly chewing. My little miracle is that none of them know my name. They call me derogatory, demeaning things. They expect humiliating tasks from me. They demand money when they know there is none. Punishments vary but, secretly, I cannot get enough of it.