Lord, send me an angel (again).
You'd expect that an act of admitting a lack of an ability to maintain a stable relationship to be a cathartic experience, but sadly, it's not. I'm quite convinced that it'd be a lot more fun for an animal rights activist to line up a baby monkey in a sniper scope and pull the trigger than it is to embark upon a journey of uncertainty and raw emotions without a predetermined, happy conclusion to feel secure with.
There isn't any substitute for love; there's not enough chocolate in the world to overcome the fleeting tingling sensation of sensuous enlightenment you get when you clutch someone's grip into your own. Sadly, when things go asunder, there's no real sedative for the niggling itches that you can't scratch off and the doubts that you can't shake.
Moments stretch into days that, in turn, stretch into years where you're still wondering what went wrong.
No amount of labia licking or frenium fondling can divert your mind from the fact that once upon a time, physical stimulation came secondary to the genuine warm, fuzzy feeling that your receptors were tuned for.
Sadly, love is the blue chip that only goes southwards once you buy into it. It's the worst investment that you can ever make. The only conclusion that anyone can see is its end, be it in a shallow pool full of nubile, topless girls, or at your spouse's death bed at the very end.
There still isn't a substitute for it. But on mornings like these, I wonder if it's worth the trouble when an alternative form of gratification I can get stems from my left hand.
Love thyself. It's a whole lot more convenient.
There isn't any substitute for love; there's not enough chocolate in the world to overcome the fleeting tingling sensation of sensuous enlightenment you get when you clutch someone's grip into your own. Sadly, when things go asunder, there's no real sedative for the niggling itches that you can't scratch off and the doubts that you can't shake.
Moments stretch into days that, in turn, stretch into years where you're still wondering what went wrong.
No amount of labia licking or frenium fondling can divert your mind from the fact that once upon a time, physical stimulation came secondary to the genuine warm, fuzzy feeling that your receptors were tuned for.
Sadly, love is the blue chip that only goes southwards once you buy into it. It's the worst investment that you can ever make. The only conclusion that anyone can see is its end, be it in a shallow pool full of nubile, topless girls, or at your spouse's death bed at the very end.
There still isn't a substitute for it. But on mornings like these, I wonder if it's worth the trouble when an alternative form of gratification I can get stems from my left hand.
Love thyself. It's a whole lot more convenient.
posted by funkyhippopotamus at
1:00:00 am
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