You Can't Hear Even Though You're So Near

Pretty plain, that's pretty clear, and I'm the only one to whom it matters but while they're off litigating or being Dutch, I'm here: being cracker, measuring houses; mothering. Stop. Move. Talk isn't cheap, just poorly made, and I needs the sex hotel or some reasonable facsimile; with clean sheets and an unobstructed view of: don't even care. But do bother! Because I always dreamed of a man who would anticipate my needs and feed me chocolates and light my cigarettes; upon sounding off sounds more like I dreamed of a butler but whatcha whichever, some kind of kicky kink thing, like my personal favorite fanfic, his faux-chauv: the clamp on my inner fake-fem's nipple. But I reiterate: I don't care: about religion or politics or playing nice-nice with the woo-woo's who live for either/or. What I do care about is how when acting with a man's initiative, you grab my ass and I can finally exhale and draw the damp curtain 'round my blushing ambition.

To think, I have to write a proper report in a few short weeks.