It’s a mysterious fig
(Love)…which is a line from the 40-Year Old Virgin. The movie, which I do love.
Explaining to someone (I don't know - who I was tryin to get to know) what I do for fun, I forgot to mention writing. And lately, with the sun showing it's hot face, I've been thinking about writing and love and writing about love. Not necessarily romantic love, although, of course that cums to mind. But, also, love that it is hot on yer skin and thick in yer mouth. A strong friendship or new ones, fresh, wet and soggy, like a forming fetus. A sharp wind across your dry-ass lips and a caring rose petal of a friend lends you their chap stick and it's bettah that x-mas. I was thinking that some folks seem to stumble upon love like dog shit on the street. They attract it or it attracts them and soon it's smeared brown chocolate on their shoes - a loving stink. I envy these folks, these little fuckers, but I also realize that that is an outside perception, and maybe they would tell me the shit stinks, which would be apropos. Justin Timberlake has a (new? newish?) song and since I don't listen to the radio that much myself I am only hearing it for the first time. It's about "Summer Love." True, Justin is a hot mess, but I'm not gonna act like I don't shake my booty to club bangers and I spend every day listening to good music. I love good and bad music alike, depending on mood and the taste in my mouth. And I wuz thinking, that there is something hopeful and exciting about summer. Maybe you'll make new friends? Maybe you'll get laid sometime in the next century? Maybe you'll meet folks that will make you excited and in return they will be excited? Maybe some spiritual relation will spit in yer eye and yer cute azz will be more then that, you'll turn into a flower for a minute (like the book/movie Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy). Sometimes the connection to love feels so delicate, it makes me…I mean, it's easy for me to forget the delicacy of it, especially if yer social lubrication is alcohol, a rough liquid warm in yer gullet, and at the back yer throat the next morn. I guess what it cums down to is wanting to be loved, but also craving the security of sweet ass folks, their thick-pointy tongues holding conversation I feel engaged in. My erratic hands making grand, dramatic gestures in an attempt to a tell and story, not be hella cool.
Explaining to someone (I don't know - who I was tryin to get to know) what I do for fun, I forgot to mention writing. And lately, with the sun showing it's hot face, I've been thinking about writing and love and writing about love. Not necessarily romantic love, although, of course that cums to mind. But, also, love that it is hot on yer skin and thick in yer mouth. A strong friendship or new ones, fresh, wet and soggy, like a forming fetus. A sharp wind across your dry-ass lips and a caring rose petal of a friend lends you their chap stick and it's bettah that x-mas. I was thinking that some folks seem to stumble upon love like dog shit on the street. They attract it or it attracts them and soon it's smeared brown chocolate on their shoes - a loving stink. I envy these folks, these little fuckers, but I also realize that that is an outside perception, and maybe they would tell me the shit stinks, which would be apropos. Justin Timberlake has a (new? newish?) song and since I don't listen to the radio that much myself I am only hearing it for the first time. It's about "Summer Love." True, Justin is a hot mess, but I'm not gonna act like I don't shake my booty to club bangers and I spend every day listening to good music. I love good and bad music alike, depending on mood and the taste in my mouth. And I wuz thinking, that there is something hopeful and exciting about summer. Maybe you'll make new friends? Maybe you'll get laid sometime in the next century? Maybe you'll meet folks that will make you excited and in return they will be excited? Maybe some spiritual relation will spit in yer eye and yer cute azz will be more then that, you'll turn into a flower for a minute (like the book/movie Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy). Sometimes the connection to love feels so delicate, it makes me…I mean, it's easy for me to forget the delicacy of it, especially if yer social lubrication is alcohol, a rough liquid warm in yer gullet, and at the back yer throat the next morn. I guess what it cums down to is wanting to be loved, but also craving the security of sweet ass folks, their thick-pointy tongues holding conversation I feel engaged in. My erratic hands making grand, dramatic gestures in an attempt to a tell and story, not be hella cool.