You'd A' Done The Same Thing

I should've just kept my cockholster shut -- by which I mean, my mouth -- but given the circumstances of our lives, I can understand the confusion caused by my ambiguity. I've only broken three bones in my life - the itty bitty ones in my ear - and that was from playing the bloodsport ballgame of intimacy; run-diving to catch the foul ball of low-pitched words blunt blurt bunted by bad batterers out of left field. There are three tests one should apply to sex: is it legally permissible, physically possible, and economically feasible? Oops, that was meant to be "real estate development." But what do I know of real estate development? My day job is licking the stamps of love letters that are rarely read by the recipient, overlooked like junk or hate mail, either out of disbelief or boredom, its hard to tell the difference sometimes. No, it doesn't seem right to take information given at close-range, for the gag, the bind, and the ammunition round. This is the age of pixelated pleasure and pain, of liquid crystalized cringes and curiosities, of hi-speed psychosomatic hard-driveicide. A new blog is created every two seconds and he's afraid of my finger-print speech patterns. Eponymous anonymity is the new armor and new safety blanket for tradesecret spillers and slipping spouses everywhere. But that anonymity comes at a price, like everything else in this free market den of ill-repute, and after a day and night at the bosom of your best friend, do you even know who you are anymore? Are you your ageless avatar, your pseudo-clever pseudonym, your prolific profile? Pluck what you need from the stream, like data for work or love for life or purge your inner poisons via push-button, and then get the fuck out. Reality will always trump fantasty in my house of cards, but if you want to "Win Friends and Influence People" become a machine.