Untitled #7

She speaks highly of me. She speaks about me so much her boyfriend gets tired of hearing about it. [?] He kind of gave me a tired look. But he was sick of me. He was sick of hearing her talk about me and enamoring me on some sort of miniature tennis ball that she'd created out of her own grey matter. I wasn't one to talk. My grey matter had been clicking and twisting and squirming like a junkie trying to get off of Naropa [?].