My Real Eulogy (cat-colored and almond-shaped loves hazel and knowing)

How do you thank someone for their time? Brains, and their wracking; hands wringing, parts, squinching. Here, look, a video game. Come, come now: hold it down, press it on, work it out. That's what you do, Baby. Como se dice: lidocaine + sea spray + silicone + sand + some quanta value of flesh/faith/love/chemicals/trust = public perverts.

I don't mean to write cryptically, but I need a release from the analytical grind, from the Power Pointlessness and the endless Excel-eration and the whoreporate Priorities and ... the faustian People? They wear me out. Fuck every last one of them. Except the two I made and the few I like. And the one I do literally fuck: my sweetness and light, like honey, but much stickier.

And I like to think of him all sticky, sticking around, sticking it out with me, hanging out with me, speaking to me: in his halting Spanish or French, or fluidly, in Cracker, or the way he looks when he's bouncing on his toes, completely naked, when we're on break or just looking for something, like he's about to run a race. He has no idea.

Do you? You have no fucking idea. You silly thing! How my physical heart glows for you? I love Blogger! I love email! I love simplicity! And I loathe anyone who would so much as look at you askance. I get homesick for you on my commute, for christsakes. One time, I walked on an empty beach/former subdivision and watched you exploring in the setting sun and I traced your initial in the sand with a seashell and I prayed, the way people who don't pray pray, that you would fuck me on the beach until high tide washed us out.

Let's get really, really fucking stupid rich and go down the rabbit hole and never come back. I will find a way. Just keep sticking around, longer.