And Finally an Autumnal Depression Left Us Delirious
Sometimes I feel like talking to people but I don't know who to call and then sometimes I pick up my phone and scroll down through the list of names and think about calling so and so but then I think, What if she picks up? What the fuck do I have to say? I like the song "Jolene" by the White Stripes. Oh. Gee. Thanks for calling. I have to go. Important shit to do. I have to go clean a toilet bowl, blah, blah, blah.
Nothing I say will really be what I want to say so why even bother calling? I don't know, I don't know, but it seemed like a good idea at the moment . . . Maybe I will hear your voice and let go and maybe say something interesting but maybe even more importantly say something honest.
But, no, I will regulate myself.
How are you? I'm fine. Oh, really? Yeah. I see. Uh-huh, nothing much going on here. Just thought I'd say hi. Cool. Man, that is messed up. Oh, all right . . . yeah and blah, blah, blah. I have so many dumb opinions. I have more opinions. I don't know shit but I have opinions. I am an idiot listen to me talk. I am lonely and bored and I'm calling you because I want to share my stupid opinions with somebody and you answered the phone so you won and you get to hear blah, blah, blah. Uh-huh. Sure. I like the song "Jolene" by the White Stripes. How big do you think my dick is? Three inches. Yep. I want things. I have wants. Wants. More wants. Blah, blah, blah, wants. Wants. Needs.
You'll come over.
I won't ask any questions about the other boys. I don't really care anyway. I'm not thinking about a future. I'm thinking about a quiet sort of romance that doesn't really breathe as much as lingers on the edge of acknowledgement. We'll watch TV in the dark. I'll bite your nipple. You'll slap my face. We can laugh at the television. Laugh at the television. Cry at the television. Isn't it good to be with company I say. Yes it is good you say. I say why. You say dunno, just is. I say okay. You say kiss me. I say no. You say yes. I say nothing. You shake your head. You say nothing. I look at you. I bite your nipple. You do nothing. I whisper a secret in your ear. You say nothing. I leave you alone. You say nothing. I get up and get a glass of juice. I sit down. We laugh at the television. Laugh at the television. You say porn ruins everything. Porn ruins relationships. I nod, thinking about porn. Thinking about porn. You say it isn't factual; it isn't real. I say our porn is real. I am real. My cock is real. Your pussy is real. I put my cock in your pussy and that is real.
You say I haven't put my cock in your pussy. I nod. I say but it would be real. You laugh. Not at television. At me. I drink juice. You say you are going home but you don't move. You say you are going home again and I say okay. You say you're going and I say . . . okay. You sigh. I shrug. You slap me. I think that I should not have told you that secret. I sigh. You get up to go. I drink juice and stare at the television. Porn ruins everything you say. I look at you. I ask what you mean. You say that porn ruins everything. I am no closer to understanding because you repeated yourself and I make note of how people repeat themselves as if that makes everything clear. I wonder if I repeat myself. I think I do. You talk about porn, about how it ruins things. I ask if it is because my cock is only three inches. You say you have never seen my cock and you don't believe it is only three inches. I nod. I say we will not have sex. Why you ask. I say it is because this is too absurd. And you said you are leaving. You shake your head as if I said the dumbest thing ever said. I sigh. You say let us have sex. I say we are robots doing the motions of sex. It is boring. I'd rather not. I'd rather drink juice and laugh at the television. You say you are leaving. I say okay. You leave. I finish my juice. I turn off the television. I masturbate to the memory of your scent and the shape of your breasts.
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