I get what I want, and this summer, I want Emily Dickinson. She is the hottest girl in Amherst. Did you see that white dress she insists on wearing every day? It reaches all the way to the floor, baby.
Mark it down, before I leave Massachusetts, I’m going to bang that lady poet. She’ll be so out of her mind, she’ll be like, “I’m nobody, who are you?” And I’ll be like, “I’m the dude who just fucked your brains out.” And she’ll make me leave because she has chores. People don’t realize she can’t get out of chores just for being a poet.
I’ve hooked up with many sexy ladies in the past, and let me tell you, man oh man, every single one of them had seen volcanoes. I’m looking for a girl, who’s like, “We could talk about whatever you like, but I want to talk about death.” Aw, yeah, only us in this carriage, baby—and immortality.
I’m going to pork Emily Dickinson so hard she won’t want to leave her bedroom for the rest of her life. People will be like, “Emily, come downstairs, it’s Mr. Bowles, your editor,” and she’ll be like, “I can’t leave my room, I’m too sad,” but it’ll be because she got boinked so good.
When we’re boning, Emily Dickinson will scream so loud, she’ll forget about her chronic pain. Emily faces a life of hardship, but the only thing that’s going to be hard between me and Emily is my dong.
Also, her punctuation’s gonna get all messed up, like em dashes everywhere—people will edit that shit out. She’s gonna be capitalizing words randomly, and scholars are going to debate what it means. News flash, nerds: it means, “I just had the best orgasm of my life.”
Yeah, people say Emily Dickinson is a lesbian. Where’s the proof of that? She’s written a few affectionate letters to her sister-in-law? Whatever. After Emily meets me, she’s gonna be like, “Dick—forevermore!”
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Emily has got that pale face and that sexy middle part in the one photo of her, and she’s doing that half smile like she wants to be dead, and man, let me tell you, when we start smashing… that might still be her expression honestly, it’s hard to know.
I mean, sure, there’s a chance that Emily’s gonna look me up and down and be like, “Nope,” but I’ll say, “Hope is the thing with feathers.” And if it’s still a no, well, there are a lot of eligible writer ladies in Massachusetts who would love to go to Pound Town with me. Where you at, Louisa May Alcott?
