Category Archives: non-fiction metaphor

One part: breezy, two parts: free and easy, a little umbrella and serve

I once strode forth like the thunderous gallop of the tides with an answer before a question. Only one fluid ounce of yearning; half for wielding the best questions in my right hand and the other half to yield the best answers in my left. A swift silver tongue to fool them all into thinking me a fool and nothing more. The snicker of a man.

But waning in time left me only to lurk in the doorway between the deafening past and the deafened future. The raging waves of my finesse became blind raging waves and I had been nothing beyond a mere jester.

I climbed off the stolen mare in the marketplace, and watched the merchants, orphans, lambs, gamblers, liars, thieves and travelers. I shut my eyes and covered my ears at the thought of being one of them. To the right of the square was nothing, making it an ideal place to be. I shuffled a coin between the slits that were my fingers to ponder. A festive murder of crows squawked in the distance accompanied by the howl of a wolf in the other direction, paying homage to the rituals of moonlit nights. Except that night, the wind didn’t speak it’s lonesome tongue. Murmurs accompanied. Gibbering echoes like they were from the bottom of some magnificent cave. ”mine yesterday, not mine before, not mine today, mine after,” I heard at dusk.

At once, I rose forth like an engulfing field of daisies with pollen for the bees. I wielded and yielded both questions and answers in one hand and held the hand of the blind future with the other. Though, one hand on the water vase for the blossoms. The grin of a woman.

Men kill beasts. Woman kill beasts without bloodshed. I whistle with the murder, howl with the mangy mutt, waltz with the wind, snickered as a man and grinned as a woman. I see no beasts to kill for I can now see.

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a blind date

My friends have grown weary of my preference for isolation. Their orchestrating a blind date was the preferred method of intervention, and to me is truly an endearing gesture. Had I any grace left these sentiments, my coal of a heart would’ve undoubtedly twitched. I’m not a sociopath, of course, I gather this gesture to be a testament of their faith in me. I didn’t waste time applying faith in myself, and with all else, my faith was half-assed and retractable. This meant my homies were the only ones who really had any hope for me. Of course, I’m not an ass (at least, when it involved amour from my homies), and so, consented to their subconscious wager and went on a blind date with a bird named Bea. Entirely disregarding what Nietzsche said about hope being the first sign of defeat.

I’ve never been anything short of an oddball or a nervous wreck when it came to dating. Oftentimes, both. In person, I am not as articulate as when I write. (My physical body had a fallout with my brain, and the two have been estranged ever since.) But with Bea, I had a plan. I remember always having, needing to be adored by the flowered suitors I was sentenced to. All the while in the back of my mind sat this tormenting feeling of impending panic had my dates not even bother to bat their lashes. That made me an odd-er-ball and blighted whatever wrecked nerves I had left. But I had a scheme for Bea. Sometimes, the girl would stick around for more, to catch the rest of the show. That made things worse because I was then accused of being disinterested and inattentive. But Bea wouldn’t be berating me with that bullshit, not with the strategy I’ve got bakin’ in the oven. I’d always rebuked those accusations with pretty good material, but I could never admit to them that I really was guilty of their accusations. Sort of. I mean, there had to be something wrong with a girl that wanted to see the rest of the nervous odd-er-ball wreck show, and in the front row. I’ve cooked up a plan for Bea, because I have, at last, caught onto how often I’m really checked by disappointments. They really know how to tire you out in the ring.

Then came the night Bea and I were to finally meet. We were to rendezvous at a dive downtown, which was, impressively, her idea. I was early. I remembered having been to this bar before. For a friend’s homecoming. I thought about the night of my friend’s homecoming, as I ordered lager and a shot of whiskey then took the shot as soon as it arrived. As I chased the shot with the lager I realized it didn’t make any sense to have my friend’s homecoming night at a dive in downtown because we all lived about a half hour’s drive from Downtown L.A., and not only that, we didn’t have our drinking licenses when he departed the first time. We always went to the local poolhall to drink because the employees there were incomprehensibly lax in checking I.D.’s. ‘We should’ve gone there.’ I muttered. The bartender walked over and told me to come again. I told him I was telling myself something then told him I was waiting for a blind date. He looked at me with curled eyebrows for a moment, then I clarified that my date wasn’t actually blind. The bartender threw his head back like someone who’d just remembered where they left their car keys and gleefully shouted,

‘Oooh, a blind date. I didn’t know people still went on those.’

‘Yeah, it’s probably Facebook’s fault that blind dates are an endangered form of dating.’ I joked back.

‘Right? You can see which bitches are ugly now.’ he seriously replied.

I laughed and toasted my glass. Later, I realized I’d spent my youth and young manhood as an ugly bitch, so I didn’t appreciate the bartender’s discernment of Darwinism. But I just thought he was a fucking asshole as soon as he said it. My laugh was a courtesy laugh and my toast was insincere, but were both necessary because he was in a position to get me loaded. I also didn’t want to be on the wrong foot with the bartender before my blind date had even arrived.

After the bartender dropped off my third beer, I took a peek at the new tab receipt he put into the empty scotch glass in front of me. 24 dollars, plus the expected gratuity, as it is an unwritten law that you tip the bartender. About 30 dollars altogether. 6 bucks should do it, even if he is a fucking asshole because I was the only one who knew he was a fucking asshole. I had 35 dollars in my pocket. They were in my pocket because I never carry a wallet. Wallets of mine tend to either go off on their own adventures or be forgotten by me, a mutual neglect from both parties. But I was left with only a fiver while Bea took her sweet honeybee time.

Half an hour had gone by. Since my third beer arrived. There was still two inches left in my mug. It had gotten warm because I was trying to ration the last of it and play off the notion that I wasn’t a really big drinker, and not order another drink for the rest of the night. I gestured the bartender over to me.

‘Can I pay the tab?’

‘Sure, twenty-four.’

I handed him both the cash and tip. He pressed buttons on the register. As he shut the till, he threw his head back and found his keys again. Then walked back over to me.

‘She didn’t show, huh?’

‘Nope.’

‘That sucks.’

‘Yup. Oh well.’ I rummaged through my pockets and pulled out cigarette from my cigarette box. As I began getting off the stool I was stopped by the bartender.

‘Hey man, your beer’s warm. How ’bout a refill? On me.’

I looked at him unemotionally at first, then grinned and nodded. I repositioned myself on the stool and took the cigarette from my lips as he filled my glass. Maybe he’s just an average asshole after all, I thought. He came back with a chilled mug.

‘Thanks man.’

‘No problemo. It sucks getting stood up. Did she call or text or anything?’

‘I don’t have a phone.’

‘I saw you playing with one.’

‘I don’t have a phone with service. I was looking at porn on my phone.’

we laughed.

‘I’m sure she’s got a good excuse though, man.’

‘Probably, but I’m cool. Really.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yeah. I was expecting to be disappointed. But I had a plan to fight that. I just didn’t think I’d be disappointed before the date even started.’

‘Haha, I know what you mean. You thought she was going to be an ugly bitch, huh?’

‘That would’ve been too soon, too.’

we laughed again. Then we sort of stood there. Awkwardly. Well, he stood and I sat. Then I said,

‘Blind dates are fucking stupid, I didn’t even get to see my date.’ then I quickly chugged my beer. The bartender laughed.

I put my cigarette sternly back on my lips and bid the bartender a good night. I got checked again even though I had a new fucking strategy, I thought to myself as I puffed out the smoke from my cigarette on the train platform. Then I smiled acknowledging the skill of my opponents.

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cleanliness is also next to deathliness

Living amongst 4 persons in their mid 20’s who had not been coerced into their adulthood through an irredeemable loss, has but revealed many truths about life. One of which, is the fact a pedant innocence follows them no different than that of a shadow that follows a figure. I would not have been able to discover this had it not been for the advent of my 25th birthday, when I decided to clean our kitchen.

It’s aesthetic design was not of marble but of white, as a kitchen normally is. The darker streaks on walls and counters were not apart of the original floor plan. They were stains and smears of filth and foolishness, admittedly, I may have been guilty of as well. I scrubbed with fury and obsessiveness, as I would when trying to convince a woman of my love for her. Fury and obsessiveness only works when cleansing it seems, and within the same amount of time. Five nights. It cost me five nights to learn how much more I loved my mother than I showed, as love can only be proven, never shouted.

I had always looked at my upbringing with disdain because my kitchen, let alone the rest of the home, was ever filthy. Beyond my wonder, I could not see why my mother could not keep it clean. A mother of three boys. I did my part in excelling scholastically, and kept out of trouble, even keeping out of social situations which caused most troubles in youth. A sacrifice to me. All my mother had to do was go to work at sunrise till about an hour before the boy’s bed-time. Dinner was then started, and the filthiness of the kitchen was sustained.

After becoming a quarter of a century old, I cleaned my kitchen. A kitchen that has sustained a year and a half of belligerent batteries. I have suffered an irreparable loss. I have not uttered a single solemn word of inconvenience. I have realized the insufferable child that I was. We spend our lives in preparation of many things, but never could quite accurately appreciate a person regardless of the ample opportunities. If there’s at least one bit of goodness I may impart upon the blind few it is this: clean your kitchen to your standard and take a second look after 5 days, it well show you the things you take horribly for granted in life, in honest euphemism.

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Away from the Numbers

I locked up my bicycle on Colorado Boulevard. Off to the side of a parking garage on Fair Oaks Avenue. Lining the boulevard are buildings pregnant with restaurant and retail establishments. The city of Pasadena parades these buildings as being historic which meant either they probably meant something once or that they were simply a century old and historic by default.

People ate and shopped on the street all through the day, but with a strange sort of skillful seriousness. They were culinary connoisseurs and professional purchasers of an inspiring vacuous conviction. Then they’d retire as a new boulevard would be birthed beneath the blanket of nightfall; inseminating the luxurious little lane with nightlife. Then the city’s beauties binged on bottomless bottles of beer, booze or bubbly in babe-abundant bars where bitches bounced their booties to the bass being bumped. There was a bar for anyone, any scene and were at your fingertips. If you could find a parking spot.

Parking garages were plentiful. They had to be in order to accommodate the plethora of tourists. You could find one around every corner and would probably regard them with honks, fist shakes, screams, and smacked steering columns. Then you’d find yourself still honking, fist shaking, screaming and abusing your steering column as you’d tread through the parking garage til you found a parking spot. Getting past traffic signal-handicapped tourists to the parking garage was only the first part.

It was easy for me to dismiss the luster of Colorado Boulevard. It’s convenience may have been a part of it. It wasn’t a trip away, a plan away nor even a drive away for me. It was a train-stop away, a bike-ride away, a walk away, or even a song away. I couldn’t discern the street’s splendor from the adjustable basketball hoop in my neighbor’s driveway. (The hoop had a potential to raise my self-confidence by granting me one slam-dunk in life, however this remains hypothesized until I cure a misunderstanding my neighbor had of me, of which had ironically impeded any attempts of my doing so. Access to the hoop was denied indefinitely.)

My apartment was only a few blocks away. Of that I was grateful. I was unable to see the brilliance of the boulevard others saw because I saw this: at least 90% of people walking the boulevard that day will be bitch-slapped by a fee for a parking pass. Most visitors and virtually every tourist had no idea where the real parking spots were hidden. They either purchased the pass or paid a parking violation because they just weren’t clever enough to outsmart the street signs. There was more parking enforcement than law enforcement. It was both saddening and amusing to see that it wasn’t the historical buildings in Pasadena, but the huge, hollow buildings that really made the most money in ratio to the amount of effort they required. I never did know much about business. People were sent to institutions by their loved ones and some went as far as to send themselves; with a common endeavor to become educated with whatever the actual ideology of business was -It ain’t me babe.

I just hoped business wasn’t just about numbers and the accumulation of it. I saw the numbers. I never appointed an importance to them. I never had the desire to become wealthy. I was okay with being poor like I’d always been. I was pretty good at not having any money. I didn’t give enough of a shit for business to try being good at it.

I was always bad with numbers. Never had I felt comfortable around them. The multiplication table mocked me. Enduring the abuse of business felt unnecessary. It would’ve threatened me only with poverty which I’d already been well-acquainted with. I just wanted to live simply and simply love, not flashily but whatever was enough for Goldilockshold it! she’s gets eaten! …right? As simple as these aspirations appeared, they weren’t. I was too busy being bitch-slapped by life and love, smacked like it was none of my business. I wasn’t sure why this was. It never seemed to be very fair. I’d already learned these life and love lessons, several times over. It was almost as though I was being beaten for entertainment. There were times I’d been reduced to having an Elliott Smith album on repeat as my body was locked in fetal position on the tile of the bathroom floor. Though sometimes, the abuse was funny. Sometimes.

Perhaps, when you boiled down life and love, they’d also be revealed to persist through the accumulation of numbers. Ergo, I wasn’t good at life and love because I was terrible with numbers..? This sounded rough, but sounded about right. I haven’t even mentioned how terrible my luck was. Let alone mentioned the menacing bully that was my mind. hey, chubcheeks, listen… i’m right fuckin’ here! don’t be sayin’ shit ’bout me!At least, not yet. Looking at the parking structures on Colorado Boulevard always gave me an image of people everywhere being backhanded, which incidentally reminded me to set the lock on my bicycle. -a cheap combination lock I picked up which would lock or unlock with the right numbers. 

[This is the introduction to the novel I’ve been working on.

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New Years Err-ve

shalom

Your last few minutes before the imminent actuation of 2012 were probably expended on the disintegration of your own liver through [a hopeful] self application. Or, as I had, had done anything else inconceivably bland. Like disassociating reflections irrelevant to a conducive purchasing of a new calendar, because you had spent the afternoon voraciously venturing anywhere the free trains found a track to roll upon,  while a concealed half-empty booze bottle blackmailed my thalamus to transform my more tranquil temperaments to those that thwarted the terror of singing aloud to my Regina Spektor playlist in the style of Jonathan Richman with a veracious sincerity to move passengers. Of this endeavor, I’ve an obligation to impart a word of advice; “project your voice as thunderous train rails will big-league your thunder on principle. Try the candid musical at Whole Foods! …My concert didn’t move anyone. Expect to move their narrow-mindedness away.” 

Of my last minutes of 2011:  spent swallowed supinely by a subterranean silver serpent, spanning seven serially spacious cylinder-shaped stomachs. Counting down the demise of 2011 with unacquainted patrons on L.A.’s Metro Goldline, was a disproportionately grievous but accurate reckoning of my lone dejection. I had already been privy to the dejection. And I hadn’t stigmatized an opposition to gang-related public countings. …or chantings. 

It was a reminder of the dejection to be on that train anxiously wanting to negate it by being somewhere among people I just met but knew the signature laughs to, subconsciously suffocating because of the possibility of 2011’s implosion engrossing the train into an ink-blackness, billowed broodingly the looming nebulous darkness deflating downwards mocking the touchdown of a buoyant balloon toward the pinch left of that little white promise. Fostered, finally by my indolent yet conscientious cerebral constitutions. I had no wishes to be reminded of these or other things behind the sun before I had my coffee from the fresh pot of the new year. …But their merriness know no mercy! Further exasperated by an unflinching off-key acapella belting of Auld Lang Syne in the key of ‘Contentedly smug assholes’, whilst the more musically declined of intoxicated invalids, will have exponentially expressed evident existential enjoyments to a greater degree than my own, as their overwhelming voices slurred every other word of theirs into my charitable coherence. Finally, they impart insensitively echoed  cheers and chants condescendingly commanding me to “have a happy new year…” 

“‘have,’ is an interrogative!” I’d always wanted to clarify. …cavalierly!

I prayed midnight would not catch this train. Moments before my physical boarding of the train, I’d sent my roommate a text asking his fetching of the phone number to the coffeehouse of which, laid at the ends of my cross-hairs of my steel serpentine missile. I warned them of my impending tardiness. “By 2 minutes”, as specified by my infallible meticulousness.

I had gone to work earlier that day which, coincidentally, was also a coffeehouse. The difference between both cafe’s was a corporate dictatorship, of which mine had lacked warranting my merriment as opposed to counting down the cooking of 2011’s goose behind a cash register. An earnest elation emanated from not having to tiptoe around an invisible ladder of hierarchy. But during my shift New Year’s Eve easygoing-ness, I inadvertently noticed a pattern, perpetuated amongst peculiar patrons; their collective consensus to adorn an indifference to the induction of the new year, 2012.

Ironically, I’d have imposed an indifference of my own caliber towards the discovery of a mass banality under ordinary circumstances, but this banality had especially fingered my fancy as it inconspicuously instituted intelligibility. Indifference was the answer. The essence of life was a dim corridor of endless possibilities to be revealed by the light. But high-up above the essence of existence, the chandelier of chaos swung subversively, illuminating innumerable flickering candles of curiosity infinitely over innumerably transparent possibilities, indifferent to a possibility’s consequence coveted by your necessities.

Having expectations sprouted a salacious susceptibility to somberness. Frowns and grimaces issued. But not having expectations didn’t do that. And contrary to popular banal belief, not having expectations did not prohibit our capabilities to comprehend cheerfulness. Flashy smiles and grins! An indifference instigated an honest humbleness alongside an extinguished egotism.

Upon arrival to the stop, my watch had sweetly slipped some spare minutes to me. But it wasn’t enough to implore my running. My evening’s habiliments included a trench-coat, of which, a contraband whiskey water bottle cooperated with, a sweater vest, fitted slacks and,  finally, pointed Italian boots which merited a significant level of respect, possibly higher than the deterrence of my lone dejection.

I was 2 minutes from the coffeehouse which of whence commenced the hooting, hollering, honking, whistling, clapping, slapping, hugging, kazoo-ing, laughing, screaming, crying, burping, dragging, lighting, spitting, facebooking, smoking, splashing, calling, texting, twitting, screeching, emailing, singing, scratching, clawing, brushing, caressing, kissing, …to the consistent clicking pair of Italian heels on the pavement.

Pacing perfectly, obstinate to stay on-beat, the clicking was immune to twinkling notes in the crowded chords. Perhaps it were the chords who saw no twinkling in the clicking? The enchantment of the crowd’s casual camaraderie seemed inexplicably indiscernible to the piano’s careful chords, chaotically conforming celestial crescendos. The stark clicking continued as the chords always twinkled it’s keys behind his lead. It only click with absolute certainty in time. The meticulous metronome clicked consummately but had always leaded clicks ahead of the keys. The clicking time of which it was a virtuoso, but the chords twinkling of keys gracefully followed behind wherever it went, cursed only ever to hear them nearby, never beside their grace. Never else, besides the clicking.

I found myself mangled among a crowd of friends at the coffeehouse and had forgotten to devise an exit strategy. The sight of it illustrated the clustered cords collected behind an affable entertainment center of a living room of which my disentanglement deplored dusty discouragements. The schemed departure was a quirk of which I’d conditioned myself to prepare aiding my avoidance revelation of my really being a fleshly incarnate of ineptitude abominable in crowds. In hindsight, allowing myself to fall victim to such a state to begin with, exemplified a higher degree of cowardice in comparison to the requisite of a delusional vindication for a fallibly foreshadowed flee of your own prevarication. (enter dream sequence below!)

I stood, shuffling and fidgeting anxiously around sipping my water bottle of whiskey a few minutes in repose,  while they indecisively deliberated among themselves about going to a bar, to which they decidedly went after all. Confessedly, I wanted to join them. But embarrassingly there was a longstanding fear I had inhibiting my being among a group of real nerds. I had the mental aptitude and meticulousness for detail that real nerds possessed, though it demanded more. The preconceived shortcomings I had among them germinated from never having dedicated the incomparable amount of time they mantra’ed into endlessly effortless eccentricities.
I was afraid my arrest would be demanded to justice, or the hauling to the gallows of my malnourished flesh-bagged bones, and spilling of my blood would be chanted for if I had, say,  mistaken their dismissal of my presence to be subtle acceptance and, out of a displaced sense of courage, expounded an obtusely vague reference in regards to some sort of basement pop-culture wonder, errant of a minor detail, I’d be tossed to the repressively enraged mobs o’ subordi-nerds in which they’d have a frenzy inthe defiling of my body!! And those nerds! They will defile me with an overt courteousness, I’d have an inclination to shake they’re unsatisfied hands as I picked up my shuffled, tattered remains of my wits! And poker cards! This floor was filthy! …no it’s not your fault, Craig. I forget the nerdy public brandings! Imagine it! being forced to stand publicly in place! My posture is guaranteed to receive not an smidgen of envy! …and the nerds that setup  the display of your sickly body! They say ‘please’ and are dressed stereotypicall-y! Real nerds are to lazy to have a big bang theory! …or a little bang! …sorry, it wasn’t directed… yeah, I know… well how would I…? Digress now! Okay! I will if you promise to continue wearing large t-shirts! with the logos that can’t be paid a single cent  for it’s lack of sense! …and it’s pastel shade from overwashings!

Digressed. ‘would you mind‘?! They ask me! the nauseating formality! Certainly not! It was implied I had no choice! but your tone! So gentle and exudes a gracious politeness! …I feel bad for not having a choice!”  AND THEY STAMP!  Stamped with such stamping! The atrociousness absent! …fingerless fingerpointing! Devoid of detriment! you misunderstood monsters!  fraud!  They say…? at me? poseur!  one of them murmurs, but he’s hiding his face! I can’t tell if he’s actually trying to talk to the guy next to him.  infadel!  Bravo! I yell back at him. I did not not anticipate your originality! ‘Why thank you!’  he yells back a moment later. and stamped with black sharpies the exact opposite  fury exemplified during the holocaust. A full-blooded nerd could be compared to a German Nazi to some degree.

Of course, that statement would be pushing the boundary, but you wouldn’t think so after witnessing the kind of passive, unobtrusive contempt so mercilessly managed, it’d flabbergasted you to anomalously deteriorate into a state of catatonia to which even the thought of suicide seemed as feasible as cutting down a tree with a piece of bark. Fuck that shit! I’ll spend New Years alone with the shitty whiskey in the water bottle.

Even the whiskeyed water bottle in solitude to the fantastical Pulp albums on New Years morning presented a deficit in the standardized quality of torment my fearful fortune favored. I counseled a relationship till 4. (Rather than embellish the rest of that in full detail, which included hours of hysteria, a secret cave off the train tracks, a search for a little girl’s stuffed animal, and a chocolate breakfast burrito, I’ll summarize.) 

Notes from counseling (I basically had to reiterate these few lines multiple times in order to get the message through. I think they’ll help someone… if you listen to the words you use.)

-Irrational arguments are ones you make excellent points… that are irrelevant to the topic. They only sandwich more layers into your shit sandwich, but with gummy worms and waffles. (Plus, you sacrifice validity and maturity by reintroducing an already digested topping.)

-pedantic arguments are the ones where the past is brought up as ammunition for a new argument, which is also a repeat performance. And sometimes, this is done accidentally and will snowball into something else if you have Stubborn’s Disease.

-childish arguments are pedantic arguments, but have become childish because of your employ of, “I wasn’t the one who started it.” or the ‘shut your mouth when you’re talking to me!” and my favorite:

“you did this to me once remember, I’m doing the same thing back.”  the ol’ i get a freebie because this fight had already been had, but we’re not going to learn from it, nor any of the other fights we had and will ever have. -Then followed by the consequent, “how can you be mad at me for doing that?! I was going to use the freebie i think you know I technically justified.”

I don't know how to optimize my content with photos.

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Commitments

The thing about commitment is that a commitment is a commitment. It does not have an expiration date. Brushing your teeth every morning with your wife or husband for 30 years is a commitment. People who avoid a big commitment are the only ones who know how big a thing a commitment really is.

People talk behind people’s backs in A flat. If I didn’t speak to you condescendingly, it my give you the false impression of my having any respect for you. At least I care enough to talk about you.

Why, hello! I’m Mr. I-had-no-friends-growing-up-so-I-only-watched-t.v.-and-can-now-make-countless-pop-culture-references-that-makes-no-sense-to-anyone-else-but-me. You must be Ms. Commitment.

We need to arrive at a strange detente because we’re like two dogs circling each other at the park about to bite each others eyeballs out. Now, I say that with all the love in the world. Wait, didn’t I share half a pastrami sandwich with you in the back of the washroom at a truckstop in Bakersfield? No? Man, it would have been really funny if you said yes. Two answers and you pick the unfunny one. I’m being childish and not taking this seriously? Why do people say that with such pleasure? I have feelings, you know. Hold on, I gotta take a dump real quick.

Done. My large colon took your lunch from the lounge. I’m was in the bathroom negotiating it’s release.

Someone considered too nice, is considered a naïve idiot. Dostoyevsky said this. Voltaire said this in Candide. Demonstratus! (I wrote in Latin because I don’t hide how much of an ass I am when I’m writing). People call nice people, idiots, because they remind them so much of who they aren’t. Like a flu. And before they know it, that person has made them a better person. No, I don’t want to have sex right now, I’m in the middle of a dumb idea. Mel Gibson movies aren’t going to get me into the mood! Where’d you study?! Do I love you? I love parts of you, but we’re getting closer. I’m an idiot? I’m not disagreeing. But don’t blame me for being vulgar, and having naughty fantasies… blame my gender!

They’ll probably make a statue of you one day, but probably with your pants pulled down and a giant Kick Me sign taped onto your back. Hold on, I need to tell my editor something. “So the rabbit goes aroooound the tree in a loop, theeeeen it goes down the hole.” Okay, where was I? Again, two answers and you’re choosing to be dull. I’m being childish again?! Okay, okay. It’s bargaining if you want something isn’t it? It’s begging if you know you’ve nothing to sweeten the pot with. This kind of thinking killed our lord. At least once.

Life is scary, and dangerous and complicated and going down like a plane. Hope is for sissies. I’m going to ignore you now because you make me sad… you lesbian! Well, I know you’re bisexual, I was just rounding up, Ms. Commitment. Am I kidding, you ask? If I was kidding, I’d be dressed like you. Wait, are those… Givenchy’s? Nice. Did you know hallucinating is the way for the brain to work out a messed up problem…. and that your brain is bleeding. That’s what happens when a bus hits you, when I say bus, I mean a passive aggressive commitment keeper.

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Topic of capricorns

May her smiles eternally shine brighter than the sun,
Always warmer than any imported whiskey in my lungs.
Rode bicycles down a single solitary lane,
In a blouse and big blossomed blue eyes,
Ne’er the skies could ever be more blue,
Almost making up for the days ethereal beauty could be true.

Lion hearts in the most honest of realms
Underneath many moons and many yawned nights.
Expectantly awaiting the next morning’s eccentric sun.
Seaming the days of past with the days of now to reignite
Candor in the things we used to believe were fun.
Helixes of honesty and haughtiness may glow in her light,
Endurance prevalent ever-danglin’ in yay or nay in the long run.
Never will her heart settle on complacency,

Jaundice, or any sort of pointless stressing conniptions

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