Specifically, The Female Condition

Ultra-classic, but said like a thing trying to sound like a dick. Its not that, its just that I get this thing, I mean I have this thing, this tic, this dog track in my mind, this endless running, chasing that fake bone on a real stick; at worst, trying to get put down before my time, at best, adopted in, rescued, by a charitable soul, not that I believe in such a thing, I mean a soul of any quality, not the charity part, I'm just saying. I'm just saying that my idea of a romantic getaway pour deux is St. Helena Island because its all assholes and elbows in this exile, Son. Well-dressed but such an emotional slob, warring factions of rationality and surreality, a bloodless fight or flight, nature neutering nurture, superlatively evolved; this strange juxtaposition of a thing to a thing: irrelevant, like what we would've done ten years ago but that we do different now, like staying instead of skating, a not-so-subtle way of saying that you're settling for convention, but sputtered with spit, vitriolic as one can muster, feel free to take creative license with the crescendo. What do I want? To be lovable. To be a good mother. To inspire a man. Crazy? Sure, but such a dazzling repartee, plus he likes me this way, and I don't know no better.