Dollar Store Millionaire

It was a warm summer night, in a town other than this one.

You were wearing what you could afford until you met me, a Dollar Store Millionaire. Rocking those candy bracelets and mom jeans, until I took you shoppin’, for a new handbag, a new pair of shoes, a new nose and a new face. Ya, you know it, my friends are all of the top dollar doctors … in Vietnam. After some fresh spring rolls, we got your nose fixed. You wouldn’t let them fix your face, but I was ok with that. I just stopped wearing my glasses around you so the sight of you won’t be so painful.

I still think you are the prettiest girl in the world, only when I hold a picture of Don Johnson up against your face. Then you are bearable. And I’m talking about old Don Johnson, not Miami Vice Don Johnson.

Crockett took on a new meaning when I realized your license plate read CrotchRocket. Only you didn’t drive a motorcycle – you had a scooter with a flat tire. Like your chest baby. And that body, oooh ya. Square like the Times in New York City.

Maybe you should check out Weight Watchers. Or Jenny Craig. Or someone other than yourself. They may want to take you on. I mean, I’m sure that you would have to hide your pizza in your free, Radio Shack duffle bag in case the other women want to steal your pie.

They say that you can fall in love with someone over time, you know, learn to love them. Your mama told me that I would learn to love you if I learned Chinese first.

I’m still waiting.

You can find me in line at the Dollar Store, where I’m the reigning King of fake Windex Isles.

I got you baby. Your makeup, your jewelry, your artificially-flavored Cheat-Oh’s, and your neon, cancer-colored soda pop. I’ll buy your world with my Andrew Jackson.

Why?

Because your worth it, baby.

You’re the grits in my gravy, the sticky stuff on my q-tip when I clean my ears.

You are the one baby.

What’s your name again?

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Copyright 2017, Dilara Esengil, All Rights Reserved

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