(no subject)
I can't stand the thought of sharing you, my high school role model, you my vague junior crush, my second in command. Why should she find you so, so fine. I mean, damn, I already know how you can be so amazing. But it pisses me off to hear someone so awful express how goddamn happy she would be to see you, when I knew you first. When you used to be mine.
Here I ramble like the second wave leaders of tomorrow. And she used to lead, she used to, we were supposed to use past perfect tense, but it sounded too passive. She used to lead me, she used to be mine, my mentor, my guide. And now I see it was all an excercise in free-flow, in subconscious thought, in stream of consciousness. I have never taken somas. I take you on a walk through my pretend, afterthought, id/ego--superego need-to-get-laid;speaking mind. You frowned and it squirted and we thought we had basted a pretend turkey. I wrote a poem to the subtext and when I woke up on the subway you were the only one who answered my text message and I thought that meant you cared. Even though you're an egomaniac, I still might try to steal ya from your girlfriend. So how do you like them apples? Apple pie, cheese cake, or the acorn-shaped homemade cookies you made with your fashionable, new, seasonal cookie cutter. I wish a gift of mine were that memorable. But anyway, pinecones. My god. If I sat up in inventive-mode I would breed you an entire new list of characters for the novel composed in one month (30 days, it wasn't even the longest mo.) And maybe you could marvel at my amazing wit and talent, craft. But as it stand, yes, let's say, as of today, somewhere around 17 months and 200 pages. And somewhere out there, Ryan will try to sell it for me. But in the meantime, in the means, well, elsewhere, it will never be done. What if I run away to Ajo and I hole up in a big apartment, with just my cats wrapped around my ankles at night to keep me warm, will we still worry about size, shape and function to figure out if we are physically compatible (it would have just been a quickie)? Or will we have moved forward, on, drastically forward and on?
I don't know. And I don't choose to be given automatic, easy answers. All I know is, it's that much easier between the bedroom and a laugh at a pregnancy it took more than one year to conceive. I don't think the joke is funny, and I still need to sell my baby. Otherwise. Shit, otherwise. I guess I still don't know the reason I came out to try to find you. Brooklyn's never going to allow the you and the I, now, is it?
Here I ramble like the second wave leaders of tomorrow. And she used to lead, she used to, we were supposed to use past perfect tense, but it sounded too passive. She used to lead me, she used to be mine, my mentor, my guide. And now I see it was all an excercise in free-flow, in subconscious thought, in stream of consciousness. I have never taken somas. I take you on a walk through my pretend, afterthought, id/ego--superego need-to-get-laid;speaking mind. You frowned and it squirted and we thought we had basted a pretend turkey. I wrote a poem to the subtext and when I woke up on the subway you were the only one who answered my text message and I thought that meant you cared. Even though you're an egomaniac, I still might try to steal ya from your girlfriend. So how do you like them apples? Apple pie, cheese cake, or the acorn-shaped homemade cookies you made with your fashionable, new, seasonal cookie cutter. I wish a gift of mine were that memorable. But anyway, pinecones. My god. If I sat up in inventive-mode I would breed you an entire new list of characters for the novel composed in one month (30 days, it wasn't even the longest mo.) And maybe you could marvel at my amazing wit and talent, craft. But as it stand, yes, let's say, as of today, somewhere around 17 months and 200 pages. And somewhere out there, Ryan will try to sell it for me. But in the meantime, in the means, well, elsewhere, it will never be done. What if I run away to Ajo and I hole up in a big apartment, with just my cats wrapped around my ankles at night to keep me warm, will we still worry about size, shape and function to figure out if we are physically compatible (it would have just been a quickie)? Or will we have moved forward, on, drastically forward and on?
I don't know. And I don't choose to be given automatic, easy answers. All I know is, it's that much easier between the bedroom and a laugh at a pregnancy it took more than one year to conceive. I don't think the joke is funny, and I still need to sell my baby. Otherwise. Shit, otherwise. I guess I still don't know the reason I came out to try to find you. Brooklyn's never going to allow the you and the I, now, is it?