I'm going to begin by saying that I would rather write something short, delightful and funny than indulge this accursed and unshakeable daemon of inner turmoil. I'm no Proust or Freud and can no better describe or outline the psychological ravages of sexual jealousy, but of all the imposing ideas orbiting around my mental centre, these thoughts on
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Would you say my writing is most like a shaky pressure on the shoulders, a sudden disappearance of the jellies in your joints, or is it like a clothesline kick to the creases above your calves?
I read somewhere that a boxer is more liable to go weak in the knees during a prizefight if he had been careless enough to have sex the night before. Drains the pelvis or something and the knee bone's connected to the hip bone. That's why I'm always looking for the K.O. shot. Sticking around to catch a bad one is NOT my fucking style. Fast fast fast.
What is it that you relate with the most? You have my deepest sympathies if you bethink yourself my female counterpart. Come to think of it, you're the kind of feminine complexity I think about reaching with my writing. I wouldn't care to ease the volatility with the likes of you. It sucks to be such a puzzle sometimes.
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I received my package and am enjoying all of the contents, but the book the most. I wish I could relate to this post, but it seems to be a situation I am completely unfamiliar with. However, you write in a way that at least gives me a glimmer of the emotions I might feel if I was in your place. In other words, excellent.
-Jenny
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