January 19, 2018:

Teeny Miss Tiny, yogini of far southern clime.

Auburn curls, tight brown cords, trucker jacket, sneakers. Hippie shoulder bag with fringe. Superbly athletic in her itty bitty college coed thighs-don't-touch kinda way. Beautiful with waxing and lasers and botox in the lips. The world agrees: she has tens of thousands of followers on social media.

Her pics are childish. Amateur body-worship, by a photographer who can't. Her discretely topless in outdoor shower; her glowing pink on a forest trail; her in gray bra and panties holding a bottle of champagne. A twelve-year-old's vision of artistic sexuality. Maybe she was twelve when she had them taken, it's actually hard to say. She's that tiny.

With me she's sweet, naked or nearly naked, skilled, completely focused on her mission which is currently me. She's beautiful and if she weren't obviously lying she'd be seductive.

Lies: boyfriends, hookups, drugs, sugar daddies, more drugs, still more drugs. She's the Psychedelic Sugar Baby, with her bling and her world travel and her very expensive European sedan. Twenty years old and living the life. The life style, anyway.

I like her. A lot.

I don't know her. That's a regret. A big one. She's brilliant and beautiful and there's substance there trying to get out. Trapped in a veneer of expensive objects and dimwitted body love.

I'll never know. She's gone too fast. Blink, you'll miss her.

I do miss her.