hickuphelpline

I had this vice for winning arguments with silence. In the same way, last night I got involved in our evening with minimal use of language. Understanding is split between Ronnie and Tom Q, then Thomas who knows enough, and more, and then Guy, who never knows. And then when I say something he'll say "you can't understand what we are saying but you know exactly what's goin on." Sitting in the garden, extending the life of my cigerette ponderously but with a card with the no-ash-tray suite tucked under my new, red hat, I thought drunkenly about 7 ideas which Thomas counted through the back window in the kitchen, (the ideas have gone leaving the tracking equivilent of a scent only, from which I might relocate them) from the living room as the six-foot-three blond racked up the cycles of my posture, recalling the peaks to the 6-foot-4-and-a-half law student with red hair, the six-four drummer, upside-down guitarist, producer, grown up Tom and little Ronnie.

I said that I would talk about being bisexual but I can't. The maximum info available is this: I don't think about it; instead I think upon it.



I haven't taken the flouroxetine yet.