They are lettering material and I am composing tarmac. Hell yes, I find irresistibleness with girls. No, I'm not lesbian; I'm straight as the yardstick he slapped me with when I told him I thought he smelled bizarre. There were boys with boy effects and boy language and boy procedures and I enjoyed them. Boy odor, boy chortle, and boy smirk. I enjoyed those six months-- "the boy months of 2008"
here is no girl I'm in love with--I just think they're pretty, is all. Women have a way with articulation, with imagery, and splendor like never understood by men. Men try to inscribe it, but Shakespeare hadn't an accommodating inkling. He never met the incomparable Anna Gaca.
Out of six-hundred twenty-five-- three-hundred forty-two actually reveal being in love with female counterparts. This is not a suggestion. This is unpolluted happenstance because I am not in love with a girl and I will marry when I grow up---not to a girl. Well, maybe if a girl was ever like the girl I met in Chicago. It's peculiar...she's not even the same girl as back in July. Or at least, in my mentality, she's dissimilar. Pedestal, pedostool, either way, she's up there, but that doesn't mean I'm in love with her! Boys are adequate for now, thank-you.
But one day---NO. I am not in love with girls, I have a high regard for their tenderness. I just emulate the untainted delicateness, the general elegant curse they plant into everything around them. Girls are just pleasing, no matter what, and they always will appeal to me, but I am not in love with girls!
I dreamt I walked athwart Lake Michigan, but Michigan wasn't on the other side, Los Angeles was, and I was pissed for trying to contact Chicago and failing epically. Like I said; the distinction between concrete and asphalt, the peak of stairs in a six-story building. Word, you’re killing me. You’re piercing and sharpening and making it bleed. These jade underlines and scarlet squiggly lines are driving me insane. I heard that word is valued. I agree. But how long until they get that way? They can’t just go on the page and instantly they are magically precious. There has to be something—an incantation, maybe? So something I’m missing. If you figure it out, call me Al. I’ll be at the bottom of lake Michigan, holding onto the oxygen tank for dear life, and still searching for the Emerald City underwater.
It’s an ornery day full of strange occurrences, so please excuse the sheer mariahness of a covert operation.
here is no girl I'm in love with--I just think they're pretty, is all. Women have a way with articulation, with imagery, and splendor like never understood by men. Men try to inscribe it, but Shakespeare hadn't an accommodating inkling. He never met the incomparable Anna Gaca.
Out of six-hundred twenty-five-- three-hundred forty-two actually reveal being in love with female counterparts. This is not a suggestion. This is unpolluted happenstance because I am not in love with a girl and I will marry when I grow up---not to a girl. Well, maybe if a girl was ever like the girl I met in Chicago. It's peculiar...she's not even the same girl as back in July. Or at least, in my mentality, she's dissimilar. Pedestal, pedostool, either way, she's up there, but that doesn't mean I'm in love with her! Boys are adequate for now, thank-you.
But one day---NO. I am not in love with girls, I have a high regard for their tenderness. I just emulate the untainted delicateness, the general elegant curse they plant into everything around them. Girls are just pleasing, no matter what, and they always will appeal to me, but I am not in love with girls!I dreamt I walked athwart Lake Michigan, but Michigan wasn't on the other side, Los Angeles was, and I was pissed for trying to contact Chicago and failing epically. Like I said; the distinction between concrete and asphalt, the peak of stairs in a six-story building. Word, you’re killing me. You’re piercing and sharpening and making it bleed. These jade underlines and scarlet squiggly lines are driving me insane. I heard that word is valued. I agree. But how long until they get that way? They can’t just go on the page and instantly they are magically precious. There has to be something—an incantation, maybe? So something I’m missing. If you figure it out, call me Al. I’ll be at the bottom of lake Michigan, holding onto the oxygen tank for dear life, and still searching for the Emerald City underwater.
It’s an ornery day full of strange occurrences, so please excuse the sheer mariahness of a covert operation.
0 comments:
Post a Comment