Ah, the memories
Amazing what you find when you decide to finally tackle the box of shit in the middle of your home office that you've been watching expand over the past couple of months. Here I found this little gem of writing. Judging from my handwriting, pen choice and paper choice, I'm sure I wrote it while I was still in law school, or perhaps right before I started it.
Here I am, my love, expressing to you every uncensored thought this pen can carry in black. Here I search the eyes of the consumer. The consumer mind, a window to the glass box soul...a jewelry box filled with faux pearls and the cubic zirconia shine. the box remains on the shelf or maybe atop a dresser, unopened and decorated. IT is the centerpiece of the consumer prize.
I am surrounded by women of every type at the moment. Proud mommies pushing babies, reluctant old maids awaiting hope, abusive gorditas pulling their children by the arm not the hand, devout women of some Eastern sect only barely assimilating to their culture, withered and hardened women who cooked by the duality of existence, too-thin-to-have-breasts-like-that women who provide wonder-bra with all its wonderful assets, housewives who wear their husband's "Machine guns - world's best weapon" T-shirts, and finally, the girls those in the spaghetti-strap tank tops who are ascribed more sensuality than they could ever possess. Yes, this is Pueblo, my love.
Do I or will I ever fit into these types? Will I be some type that will be observed someday: the women who pretend to be great thinkers type or the women who hide their body type. Of course there is one in front of me...her skirt is so high that it makes her panty line a reality and her bra stuffed so that is looks slightly lumpy under her skin-tight glittery outfit. The least she could do was comb or style her hair. Why must women choose to make a spectacle of themselves? I don't understand. I am never really jealous of them because I possess a sexuality which is not so easily seen. I don't dress in revealing outfits but in flattering ones. I know the sexiness of me...I know that I possess an idea of myself which is attractive--it's casual, fun and powerful. That's what allows me to attract someone like you by wearing cargo pants and a white t-shirt. It's what allows me to be attractive in any light and under many circumstances--I reveal only the essence of myself--a truly sexy object underneath it all.
And i am needing you at the moment. I need a hand gripping mine or lips caressing my neck. I need your body near mine...that enticement begging me to come near. Each day, I think only of you. Each day, I want only you. I want to share preciously little thoughts with you. And I know I will be able to...but a lifetime isn't long enough to encounter each other fully.
Here I am, my love, expressing to you every uncensored thought this pen can carry in black. Here I search the eyes of the consumer. The consumer mind, a window to the glass box soul...a jewelry box filled with faux pearls and the cubic zirconia shine. the box remains on the shelf or maybe atop a dresser, unopened and decorated. IT is the centerpiece of the consumer prize.
I am surrounded by women of every type at the moment. Proud mommies pushing babies, reluctant old maids awaiting hope, abusive gorditas pulling their children by the arm not the hand, devout women of some Eastern sect only barely assimilating to their culture, withered and hardened women who cooked by the duality of existence, too-thin-to-have-breasts-like-that women who provide wonder-bra with all its wonderful assets, housewives who wear their husband's "Machine guns - world's best weapon" T-shirts, and finally, the girls those in the spaghetti-strap tank tops who are ascribed more sensuality than they could ever possess. Yes, this is Pueblo, my love.
Do I or will I ever fit into these types? Will I be some type that will be observed someday: the women who pretend to be great thinkers type or the women who hide their body type. Of course there is one in front of me...her skirt is so high that it makes her panty line a reality and her bra stuffed so that is looks slightly lumpy under her skin-tight glittery outfit. The least she could do was comb or style her hair. Why must women choose to make a spectacle of themselves? I don't understand. I am never really jealous of them because I possess a sexuality which is not so easily seen. I don't dress in revealing outfits but in flattering ones. I know the sexiness of me...I know that I possess an idea of myself which is attractive--it's casual, fun and powerful. That's what allows me to attract someone like you by wearing cargo pants and a white t-shirt. It's what allows me to be attractive in any light and under many circumstances--I reveal only the essence of myself--a truly sexy object underneath it all.
And i am needing you at the moment. I need a hand gripping mine or lips caressing my neck. I need your body near mine...that enticement begging me to come near. Each day, I think only of you. Each day, I want only you. I want to share preciously little thoughts with you. And I know I will be able to...but a lifetime isn't long enough to encounter each other fully.