Bargain Basement

Write it on a slip of paper, fold it in half, and now slide it across the table. I get to redo the kitchen if you get to do other women, so long as they're just like me and like it; a lot? You drive a hard bargain. Do you mind me asking how it handles? And how much does that guzzler cost to insure and does your policy come with a self-respect rider? Riddle, riddled with, I mean. Don't try it, Daddy! Stick to the safe road that you know gets you home! Oops, I forgot not to be boring again. A thousand mumble apologies. I meant that to be humble. I mean, grumble. Twice-bargained, now thriced, is a little too much, don't you think? I'm talking about the post, Silly Criminal. And thrice-waited if you skipped ahead to the ending. Like we always do. Don't. A society age-life modified and stratified by our real-time need to be insta-gratified: the On-Demand I Love You's types or The Microwave Takes Too Long types or the Are We There Yet types and such a couple more, more amoral or immoral than I care to wax on or jack off. On compromise, impatience, and morbidity? The story of my life. And yours, too, my darling beastlings, if it ever occured to you to have it occur to you. You wicked little children are epic songs about how we are living now: cursed eyes that are always closed, diphthonged real pretty like. I read your words and watch your pictures and I think: this world is out of this universe. Come now, Criminal, and don't worry about me. I'll be fine. I'm young. And spry. So rest your fuck-weary corpus, and when you're ready to come back down, I'll be waiting here, smoking, arguing with the Frugal Gourmet with the volume all the way down,

in case you say something to me
in case you say something
say something

Things like this make you nervous. They shouldn't. You read too much into this. You shouldn't. You should write Blogger a nice thank you for saving you 15% or more on my caaahr insurance.