Yoko hadn't been privy to the most recent bit of band gossip. She'd had to read it online. She opened her browser to find a provocative exchange between her bandmates splayed across Facebook. They were sick of her shit and auditioning other Yokos to play bass. She plead her case in the selfsame thread in the plainest language she could muster:
"W. T. F."
Despite her chronic tardiness, Yoko clung to the structure of their bi-weekly rehearsals. Though she'd no-call no-show in favor of cleaning obscure corners of her kitchen, wiping ashy fingerprints off the periphery of the light switch, crawling into cabinets to polish the greasy film off neglected pots, she needed this. She needed to play shows, gathered momentum from every terse exchange with a teenage misogynist in the crowd, thrived in opposition to the most retarded heckles. Puffed up, sweat dotting her polyester, she'd punch a tambourine and imagine it was a war pig's heart.
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