Pull The Wires From The Wall

Excuse me, Herr Docktor? How many wombs of bivalve mollusks must you rob to try to buy back the unbuybackable years and is your joy-to-shit ratio high enough yet? Excuse me, Messrs. JP Morgan Chase Stanley Goldman Sachs Smith Barney Deuche? Do you know the price of proximity and: are you willing to pay it? Excuse me, Cheft? There's a micro-dot in my Angostura Bitters and I ordered my nacre-covered grit over an hour ago.

Slow sleeping despair is a luxury and is there anyway you could break this hour for me? Because what I really need is minutes. Even in rot movies, infidelity makes me angry and sad because there is no such thing as a love triangle and doesn't anyone honor any of their commitments anymore? Or is it all just rehearsed interactions played by bad actors laid low by bad highs? I am a snob about the weirdest things but I just don't have the urge to fuck every attractive person I see. Gender is the weakest excuse for an excuse ever, but if you're ever inclined to use it, just don't ever expect me to ever buy it because I am disinclined to attribute those behaviors which have never been conclusively linked to the organic construction of the brain to penises and vaginas. It always has to come to this, but don't worry too much -- the daylight won't remember this and it will gobble up your memories like a hungry lacunal caterpillar, but when you see the handprint on the driver's side, you'll know you've found your way home. This concludes the rude interruption of your regularly-scheduled, previously-aired, pre-recorded fake love and fake hate.

What happens when you run out of words? Do you just not speak or write? Because doing that seems, to me, like when you say you can't sleep at night, but you never even get into bed to try. But I've got no suggestions.

You're right, my darling Criminal. I should've worked instead.