In our hearts we know that everyone should own fuzzy plush dice,
the kind that hang from the rearview mirror of your car
like a sign that says in bold print
“I really am a fun person”

Fuzzy plush dice belong in Priuses owned by men with pleated khakis attempting to take a risk, striving to pull themselves ashore from a sea of monotony and gray office walls

they belong to soccer moms with a penchant for infiltrating their children’s lives with outdated pop culture references and lingo on the cusp of becoming tired

they belong to the teenagers of tomorrow, who revel in the irony of everything that ever was, who wear their pants low and their minds high, who wring their hearts of reticence for the sake of rebellion


In our hearts we know that fuzzy plush dice are more than cheap kitsch or tacky American gaud
they are the secret desire we harbor inside our brittle pasty frames
the wild and the savage and the barbaric and the beast
the quickie in the storage closet and the forbidden cigarette and the fifth shot of vodka
the sl*t and the miser and the badass and the bent
and everything we ever wanted to be but
couldn’t

In our hearts, we long for

fuzzy plush dice