You’d like to know what the truth is, to then tell it. Whether you would, you don’t know. Truth’s defrosting and, encased in ice or otherwise, it’s exactly the same, but until you chip it, people act like they can’t see through, but it’s water, yo.

This conflict, between what you want and should, what you’re meant, and disappointment thick like printer ink when the cartridge pops first, when you decide what you did 5 months ago, and you keep deciding, and it doesn’t disappear like you intended it. That.

If the truth’s so powerful then why does no-one believe it? Why does everyone think it’s some flimsy joke in a shaky set? It might even be horoscope time, buddy. What sign are you, friend? Like I don’t know.

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I’d tit-tape you to stay. But a sticky technique is romantically risky; I’ve not undone a shirt since 2004. Then, I got dumped every 2 months, at bus stops. I was a kiss to recoil from. You recoiled from.

So I’m tit-taping you, cutting ex-wife’s reins from wrists and severing ties to her children. This is not a developmental issue. Her molasses are silicone chrysalises and the kids belong to potent scraps of chat room fuck.

I tit-tape and it’s a bung job and every first is hers to lord and she bought your Morrissey shirt from a jumble sale at a church, mumbling self-taught curses in deep slurs, a baby’s gurgle. And she said she was Lilith.



You know that you’re third. You’re three and you’re okay with that. You’ve never won a woman in any show that you’ve been in, so being close, getting close, being under’s an improvement, scaling up, sort of promotion, almost okay, next step for you. And god knows you’ve been working. Every god you can think of.

Guard down is not a way to be when the competition’s this fierce: up against husbands and elders and women. Pretend that you didn’t once almost date Angelina Jolie. Because I bet you had the chance and you blew it.