Every true crime documentary resides in me. Binge used to be tied to drinking. The language, I think, is evolving, and I walk the black part of town at night on a double dare from a lady poet whose lexical purview lies somewhere between her **** and the moon. I'm a beacon of fairness, fair trade coffee stains my teeth, my lenin pants imported from Bali are ethically made, and I speak in a respectable and thoughtful half whisper like the women of the QVC. I return to the loft free of gunshot wounds and love my lady poet thin and love my lady poet tall and she says confusion is the only sustainable state of being and I say I can agree with that and she says she's been thinking about transitioning and I say into more responsibility at work? and she says haha no. Into a man. And three weeks later I watch her read a poem entitled "Traffic My **** Transgender *** to Heaven," she goes home with one, two, three Sylvia Plath lookalikes, and I get swabbed at the doctors and I get prescribed a moderate dose of Effexor and I speak in high school Spanish to my office crush — she's from Venezuela, I think. Power. Control. Stockings, I tell her, I have a thing for stockings and pink cotton socks. One more drink and I'll hit my groove. Chill. Power. Control. Put on that soul song I like. Didn't I do it, baby?