Oh, no.

Yes? No? 

Feeling it.

Finally the lawyers have been called in to explain shit. You just have to listen. This is how we break up, how we dissolve this.  This is your way out. Proceed in an orderly fashion. I've got a weight around me dragging me down, down, down but at least I don't have the mess of you, that hypersensitivity you cultivated to make yourself feel special, which you are not. This I know and this is one of the reasons you need me not to be around. I love having new people in my life. I love variety, wonder, pleasure and discovery. The laundry, on the other hand... I'm so glad to be done with you.


Texting is not communication. Texting is the passing of a cooler friend in a crowded hallway on the way to fourth period French. Texting is the “lifting of the chin” reverse-nod. High school hallways can do as much damage as anything else, but it was a quick way to learn rejection, surrounded by hostile and vibrant energy. I never knew if I was going to be swept up into an embrace and swung around until I laughed with delight or ignored entirely, that uncertain fragility and fear. That is what texting feels like now. High Fucking School. I am so long done with that. One discovers that what other people think is none of your concern, so you’d best be clear expressing one’s open-ended love and avoid damaging the feelings of others. The sign says: Be kind or be gone. I mean it and will not live by less. Sometimes I’m down for being the one texted when one is bored and possibly aroused. With you that pays such lovely, extraordinary dividends. Our chemistry is amazing and, a

"Sorrow is the Price You Pay for Love."


What I Hate

I hate: Being filled with physical need, not knowing where and when the next embrace is coming from. I might just explode with desire. Messy. Having discovered the pleasure of telling the people I love that I love them, and then being unable to tell the newer members of that group the same out of fear or misunderstanding. I get so much joy out of simply delivering that news to someone. As if it was not written all over me in capital, glowing letters.

Another Dark, Wet Night

What I am having here is a long night of the soul. Monday, February 4 th , 1 in the goddamn morning. I have eaten all of the green, tinny tasting olives. Delicious. I wake up now, in the middle of the night, discovering something And I am not sure if that is at all good for me. What I want to do is what I said: I am here until my father no longer needs me anymore. That’s what I want. That is the true thing. I said I’d do it and I meant it. It cost me much more than could be imagined: My Beloved. My best Self, in a way. To catch you up on this deal with my own personal devil: It’s beginning to go badly. Da’s aging poorly with all the damage he has done To himself in the myth of his glorious life. He has been a remarkably good sport about it It’s raining outside, a proper storm. I bet it sounds great in the attic, right beneath the roof. My roof. My gift of a roof. What I want (which is all I know) Is to take my lover up the la