She drinks a bottle of milk to ease her stomach pains while getting through a packet of Reds. Y’know, the one’s Jack Torrence smoked in The Shining? It’s a dirty habit as are my frequent trips to the bathroom where I abuse myself under the pretence of suffering from a severe bout of diarrhoea. She has these perfect tits, I mean, sure it’s cheap and sure it’s not exactly poetic, but when she brings them to my mouth not a part of me isn’t on the brink of coming undone. She makes me feel just like a baby. She reduces me in ways that are both humiliating and stimulating. When she’s not in my arms, I often wonder where she finds herself. Do those lovers make her tingle, or is she going through the motions like me? Relationships. Rituals. Babylonian Gods. A diet of pills and fast food and a view of Central Park as some brunette showers while chewing cherries and snapping pencils in a state of despair. I know there are some that think of me as rather strange, but if only they could feel the love that pumps through my veins. If only they could hear my song at 4 am while pissed on wine and certain there’s no way out. The thick and thin- the power to believe. The presence of mind to smile when everything else is falling apart. The plucky underdog who doesn’t know he’s beaten even when all he has to offer are mere whims. But these whims- how they burn. How they tickle. She doesn’t know, though. All she does is rest on her belly waiting for the end. Don’t get me wrong- I love it when we merge, but hard as I try, I’m not a machine. So while she hangs around anticipating my next move, I roll a smoke and play some Sonic. She’s horrified, and yet all I can do is laugh like I did all those years ago. Was it the Christmas where Monty dog puked up all over the presents under the tree, or the one where I didn’t get in until early morning because I’d been busy eating out that girl with the chestnut eyes for five hours straight? I’m not sure. The older I get the further away the answers keep moving.