If I could.

I could tell you about a lot of things.
I could tell you about how I went to the ghetto today to look at a ridiculously reasonably priced apartment that had to be too good to be true.
And it was.
My friend asked if it was because of the black people.
I told him no way, the black people were too smart to live in that neighborhood.
It was the scary white dude on the pink little girls banana seated bicycle singing "somewhere over the rainbow".
It was the young man dressed in leather chaps who offered me some meth.
It was the shattered windshield glass littered on the ground.
Or the real estate agent who told us she would be scared to go outside after 9pm.

I could tell you how I spent hours at a museum in a short short short dress trying to get a boy to tell me that I had a perfect ass.

I could tell you how another boy sent me my favorite flowers.

I could tell you how it takes me 1.5 hours to travel twelve miles and about the road rage it induces.

I could tell you how my boss asked me whether or not I was sexually attracted to him and how I had no idea how to answer a question like that. I am a woman of actions, not words I told him. So he said show me.

I could tell you about a certain vacation I recently took, but it's top secret.
I could tell you that everything he says is true.
I could tell you that I'm a robot because it's true too.

Mostly, I could tell you a lot of things but I am suffering and sneezing and sniffling.