Out of touch? Hardly. A copy of this contemporary
oil painting is mounted on the ceiling above my bed.

I love this painting. At night, as I gaze upon its many colors, I am elevated to the very zenith of political self-awaresness. I open my thighs to the hungry masses and whisper, "Come. Take me."


What?


Lying in bed with my pussycat, I flaunt my sexuality before a godless universe. I expose that secret place between my legs, that place of awe and mystery and wonder!


What's this?


My blossom is a grand and flavorful flower for the proletariat, my burning bush the envy of every Moses.


Anna, stop. You're mixing metaphors.


An excitable butterfly in search of ever-sustaining male nectar, I fly too close to passion's flame. The fire flickers. The heat crawls. I bathe in the candle's sad glow. I drift with it's sweet aroma.


What are you saying?


Forty-nine cents is what I've been paying.   Le Scent por'Spice.


Kayce told me Anna was nuts. I should have listened. Why didn't I listen?





Because, Maxie Lee, you never listen to me! Never never never. I can talk till I'm blue in the face for all the good it does me.



Stop, Kayce!






To each, according to his needs ...




Anna!




Don't you use that tone with her! She may be a crazy Russian bitch but she deserves our respect.



Thank you, my dear. Would you care to join me in a hunger strike?





Don't push it.




Where did I go wrong?










Anna's Main Page



Max City