Those Lesser Than Evils Take Over.
The ones that pull and demand your attention. That want aesthetic creation and self destruction. It falls like a wave: an overused and too true analogy that proves every time that you will no become what you wish.
She has one of those inney-outey bellybuttons that doesn't seem to start or stop. I want her because of her bellybutton, and her tits, and her freedom. I daydream about kissing her shoulders and breasts, as she says something.
Oh shit, she just said something, and I missed it. Intimate in my head, and ignoring her in reality, panic sets in. Fuck-what am I doing here?
The man on my other side asks what I'm writing.
"Ideas," I say and note he is missing two fingers on his left hand. It is a construction wound, I'm sure. He remarks that he needs to write more. I remark we need to force ourselves. He remarks he is forcing himself to finish his drink. I reel.
Deep inside, I feel as if I am the only person who dislikes Seinfeld.
She's more spiritually confident than I, and talks about her art. My art begins and ends with thoughts of cumming in her bellybutton. Not the large, watery porn star cumshot, but the premature ejaculate after masturbating to her hours before. It is sticky and almost congealed. It sticks to her small, almost invisible happy trail, which I have also imagined. It's unfulfilling, and she is bored. I came too quickly and she is disappointed.
The man is drunker than I thought. "I'm a poet laureate," he states.
In an attempt to entertain, I say, "I'm a poet illiterate."
The blank look on his face tells all. He's been working all day, bending pipe or nailing something, and drank the entire time. I know that man.
The cultural synapse that is syndicated television between 5 and 8 becomes Friends. Joey says something funny and the laugh tracks hit.
Now we're both lost in my mind. That stickiness of regret and lost desire hands tangible. Her disappointment in my mind reflects to my face, and she pauses in the real world. Her sharp soul sees through my apathetic ruse, and any interest is quickly lost.
The three fingered man, the reruns, even the waitress I tip for false (e)ffection; they quickly wander.
And my art dies.
The ones that pull and demand your attention. That want aesthetic creation and self destruction. It falls like a wave: an overused and too true analogy that proves every time that you will no become what you wish.
She has one of those inney-outey bellybuttons that doesn't seem to start or stop. I want her because of her bellybutton, and her tits, and her freedom. I daydream about kissing her shoulders and breasts, as she says something.
Oh shit, she just said something, and I missed it. Intimate in my head, and ignoring her in reality, panic sets in. Fuck-what am I doing here?
The man on my other side asks what I'm writing.
"Ideas," I say and note he is missing two fingers on his left hand. It is a construction wound, I'm sure. He remarks that he needs to write more. I remark we need to force ourselves. He remarks he is forcing himself to finish his drink. I reel.
Deep inside, I feel as if I am the only person who dislikes Seinfeld.
She's more spiritually confident than I, and talks about her art. My art begins and ends with thoughts of cumming in her bellybutton. Not the large, watery porn star cumshot, but the premature ejaculate after masturbating to her hours before. It is sticky and almost congealed. It sticks to her small, almost invisible happy trail, which I have also imagined. It's unfulfilling, and she is bored. I came too quickly and she is disappointed.
The man is drunker than I thought. "I'm a poet laureate," he states.
In an attempt to entertain, I say, "I'm a poet illiterate."
The blank look on his face tells all. He's been working all day, bending pipe or nailing something, and drank the entire time. I know that man.
The cultural synapse that is syndicated television between 5 and 8 becomes Friends. Joey says something funny and the laugh tracks hit.
Now we're both lost in my mind. That stickiness of regret and lost desire hands tangible. Her disappointment in my mind reflects to my face, and she pauses in the real world. Her sharp soul sees through my apathetic ruse, and any interest is quickly lost.
The three fingered man, the reruns, even the waitress I tip for false (e)ffection; they quickly wander.
And my art dies.
VIEW 20 of 20 COMMENTS
I'm stuck at this one spot and can't figure out what to do next (see post in Strongbad group). I've tried every bleepin' command I can think of..... *sigh* I guess I didn't play enough questing games when I was younger.
& thanks