No, You Can't Fuck A Stranger In Houston Nor An Ex-Girlfriend, But You Will Look

or, "To Be A Bird"

Trapped? No thanks (add "fucking" between the two if you require emphasis) because I have eaten of that bitter fruit and gazed, amazed, as the accusations sprouted primaries, fledged and flew, absconding with the shrapnel of my self-respect in their talons. Tell you how I really felt? Like a pumpkin, not a petroglyph, in terms of the degree of carvedness, diphthong-ed to take the sting out. Well, you (hadn't) asked! Take heart, my little wing. Someday, I will be ready; and meet your expectations of height, weight, eye color, and solvency. Sure, I'll feel a little bit dead for knowing that I am loved based on my actualization. But lucky for me, you don't even know what that word means! and lucky for you, I have perspective. Isn't that why we always love other people, anyway? It was my favorite book as a child, The Little Penny Stock That Could. There are skeptics out there, who believe that we are nothing more than facetious expressions of purines bound to pyrimidines. And then there are romantics, who believe that even the most mediocre nonstarters can be eminently lovable. But which came first? Emotion or blood chemistry? I mean, ultimately, even death could be considered a psychological phenomenon, a compulsory kowtow to the demands of a social construct immemorial; dying simply because it is expected of you. But we aren't talking about death! We're talking about anovulation. And I always get lost in the extrapolations.

Don't worry -- I don't mean any of this, except the part about me not being okay with you fucking someone else and also the part in the very beginning about feeling scooped. I just needed to cough it up before I went to work.