Washing the sheets.

So I wonder what she felt that morning. Remorse? Regret? Revived? I will tell how I felt. Repulsed. Keep Y.O.U.R. hormones on there tiger. That is what I felt. What I loved was the inane timing of it all. The universe and I have these great personal jokes going. Usually I laugh daily. Cry weekly. And breakdown yearly. And the universe, well, let's just say has me wrapped around it's little finger. The universe always gets the last laugh - which in turn makes me giggle uncontrollably and stop (the fuck) taking things so seriously. So back to that morning. Hilarious. It signified my age, my phase, my distaste and my sobriety. Perhaps is there a word for jealous, that isn't so much as jealous but oozes with, "I am so glad that is not me, but maybe if that was me I would be ignorant of the consequences that now so likely means that will never be me?" Ponder. Ponder. So uninteresting it may be, but I have had writers bloc (yes I dropped the 'k' but it looks better don't you think?) for about 12.5 months now. I have had verbal diarrhea but textual constipation. A boyfriend will do that to you - apparently. Well in fact any happiness will do that to you. It kills. Suffocates and stuffs your creative lungs full of unpolluted, fresh air so that you breath easily and think more benignly. Which of course is a good thing. Great in fact. I fall asleep more easily, but that gives me no wee dark hours to write. So this current ambiguity may give me the laxative I have needed. And what did she have to do with it? Nothing. Nothing except that marked the date for it all, and she is writing. Suck on that.

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