To the love of my life
Today -- the most meaningful and important day of the year -- I would like to let you know how I truly feel, my beloved Epinephrine. If it wouldn’t be asking too much, may I please call you Epipen? I know everyone else already does, but I know people call me a lot of names without permission and I’d like to know that you’re fine with it.
You are?
Perfect.
Ok, now I know that we haven’t known each other for very long - two months at most - but those times have been among the best I’ve ever had. I know we haven’t had a chance to be intimate with each other, but I suppose that’s a good thing. It’s a strange point in both our lives, and I wouldn’t want to rush into anything - particularly the emergency room - without getting to know you a little better first. I want to familiarize myself with your inner workings, your relief of Anaphylaxis, your fourteen detailed directions - complete with risqué illustrations.
And I’m sorry if I’m being too forward when I say this, but I find you to be very, very attractive. How could I not? You’re always there: seductively perched on the edge of my dresser, wearing your form fitting yellow cap and that translucent case that lets me see just enough of your cylindrical form to leave me wanting more. And when I get you out of that case, ooh baby. What I wouldn’t eat (soy or shrimp, I suppose) to get a chance to twist and release your gray activation cap, to see your most intimate parts protruding from that black tip; I’m getting hives just thinking about it.
Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but someday you and I will become one. I would love to get you inside me. I’m sure that our union wouldn’t be under the best of circumstances, but I would still look forward to our ten seconds of heaven. It would be a breath of fresh air (figuratively and literally) breathed into me after moments of asphyxiation and years of loneliness. I would try to be gentle, but after considering that you would be the aggressor, maybe I would ask you to do the same. Miracles would not be expected, though; you’re spring loaded, designed to penetrate clothing, designed to be swung and stabbed with my prominent hand at a 90 degree angle. More likely than not, I’d have to lay back, try and relax, and accept some small discomfort while you worked your magic. I’d try my best to close my eyes, take some deep breaths, and massage the spot for the recommended ten seconds afterwards. As we drove to the hospital, I would glow and bask in the heat of the .3 mg I kept from our encounter, knowing that it was you who was not only reducing the effects of hives and swelling, but also stimulating my heartbeat. It would be beating all right, beating to the rhythm of my undying love for thee.
Now that I’ve poured my heart and soul onto paper, I’d like to know if you feel the same way about me. If you’d like to join me for dinner tonight, I’ll be sitting at a table for two at Red Lobster. And I don’t want you to feel obligated in any way, but I’ll be eating a lot of shrimp.
Love, David
p.s. Kelly I know you read my livejournal now, so I feel slightly awkward with you reading about my intimate moments. OH WELL!
You are?
Perfect.
Ok, now I know that we haven’t known each other for very long - two months at most - but those times have been among the best I’ve ever had. I know we haven’t had a chance to be intimate with each other, but I suppose that’s a good thing. It’s a strange point in both our lives, and I wouldn’t want to rush into anything - particularly the emergency room - without getting to know you a little better first. I want to familiarize myself with your inner workings, your relief of Anaphylaxis, your fourteen detailed directions - complete with risqué illustrations.
And I’m sorry if I’m being too forward when I say this, but I find you to be very, very attractive. How could I not? You’re always there: seductively perched on the edge of my dresser, wearing your form fitting yellow cap and that translucent case that lets me see just enough of your cylindrical form to leave me wanting more. And when I get you out of that case, ooh baby. What I wouldn’t eat (soy or shrimp, I suppose) to get a chance to twist and release your gray activation cap, to see your most intimate parts protruding from that black tip; I’m getting hives just thinking about it.
Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but someday you and I will become one. I would love to get you inside me. I’m sure that our union wouldn’t be under the best of circumstances, but I would still look forward to our ten seconds of heaven. It would be a breath of fresh air (figuratively and literally) breathed into me after moments of asphyxiation and years of loneliness. I would try to be gentle, but after considering that you would be the aggressor, maybe I would ask you to do the same. Miracles would not be expected, though; you’re spring loaded, designed to penetrate clothing, designed to be swung and stabbed with my prominent hand at a 90 degree angle. More likely than not, I’d have to lay back, try and relax, and accept some small discomfort while you worked your magic. I’d try my best to close my eyes, take some deep breaths, and massage the spot for the recommended ten seconds afterwards. As we drove to the hospital, I would glow and bask in the heat of the .3 mg I kept from our encounter, knowing that it was you who was not only reducing the effects of hives and swelling, but also stimulating my heartbeat. It would be beating all right, beating to the rhythm of my undying love for thee.
Now that I’ve poured my heart and soul onto paper, I’d like to know if you feel the same way about me. If you’d like to join me for dinner tonight, I’ll be sitting at a table for two at Red Lobster. And I don’t want you to feel obligated in any way, but I’ll be eating a lot of shrimp.
Love, David
p.s. Kelly I know you read my livejournal now, so I feel slightly awkward with you reading about my intimate moments. OH WELL!