women in ties and men in heels

Somebody not that famous broke up with somebody not that famous.

Silver balloon hoax.

Fell asleep during overtime. (Wake me up during the playoffs.)

Okay, if you are still reading this, I have secrets to tell. You have to promise not to blah blah blah. Okay? No, seriously. Okay? Okay, I will tell you: I love the snow but hate the winter. I hate the sand but love the beach. I love money but hate working. I hate being alone but love having nobody to answer to. I love food but hate the extra pounds. I hate being tied down but love being in love. I want to be in love. I always want to be in love, but like the porno kind of love where you die for the cock/cunt and the climax is death/life, and fucking is like fucking someone else every time, and we never feel more connected than when we are disconnected, and your pussy squirts all over me as a hot whip of semen lashes your face. That is maybe a lie. Not true at all, perhaps. Much, much love. And a hug. A long hug. Maybe a whisper in your ear and a soft kiss on your hair. You close your eyes, and I slap you as hard as I can, and you know that nobody ever loved you more than this — you feel the love in your stinging cheek, and you put your hand on the swelling outline of my hand, and you know

this

is going to last fornever.


~O~