skin touch kiss lips love fornicate make believe before after grand escape laughter romance intrigue disgust humble confused respect encore lousy penetrate must now why okay times forget memory lust intimacy mysterious boredom redundant go back way far cursive disturbance bring me you terrible mistake again over between under over everywhere cuddle extreme comfort wonder

my cat loves me to bits and pieces. holding him, typing with the left hand...

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and here is a real life story... with added bits like cigarettes to make it seem more interesting:

I woke up at about nine-thirty that morning with a crick in my back and a bruise on my knee- an arm wrapped around my sleepy body.

I woke up again ten minutes later. There was a cigarette burning like a single headlight in the ashtray. The room was as dark as a tunnel. I took a deep drag on the smoke and coughed a few times. Water was running in the bathroom. Slowly realizing my surroundings, I gathered my bra and clothes- found my shoes. There she was, in the bathroom. The past nights' activities could be seen by the bags under our eyes and the blank morning stares. Tired and listless, we hugged and she walked me to her door.

My car seemed very inviting, sitting there in that cold and rainy drive way. I smoked some pot, decided on Radiohead's, "Pablo Honey", and began my long and quiet drive home.

Now hours later and at work, I am imagining all of the places she could be and the people she could be with (and i hate that thought). My mind keeps drifting to a place where she and him are in that bed- kissing and tugging, roughing and scratching- "Please don't call her," I think to myself while organizing my whirlwind appetite onto lines of paper.

I look out of the glass entranceway of the tattoo parlor I work at five days a week and I notice the people walking faster. Cars driving speedily on their way. The weather must not be so bad. People always move faster when the weather's not so bad... and sure enough- I see him. The sun hiding behind clothes- clouds. Avid, strong teenagers running up the hill, occupying the cars across the street. The sun blushes it's coy shadowless face upon my street and the boy I work with complains consistantly to me about everything... mostly about how I no longer love him.

And i don't. I no longer love him. I no longer love anyone but her- her eyes. Our eyes. We scream, "FUCK"! to existance. We photograph each other and can't help but to replay our thoughts and memories time after time- I just can't get the idea out of my mind- him fucking it all up as I sit here writing. Fifty-six hours. That is what she said. Fuck. We spent over two straight days together- our first two night sleepover- and my mother had always told me that seven days is a habit. Not this. This is stronger. Heroin. We shot it together. Not the drug. This disesase- our disease. We have prepared ourselves for a coming "blood on hands" attempt at fucking shit up.

You can't always get what you want.

And not that my lunch of a provolone and vegetable sandwich has been fully consumed, I am not interested in love. No. Now I am just into minding my own business, thank you.