Cat, rat, bat mat . . . I hope you can come up with something more complicated than that. SPLAT! That is the sound of your ego hitting the surface falling on deaf ears . . . then shmearing it into the ground of indestructible fearlessness of assumtion . . . . . . . . . *
Then you get not to know who I really am . . . then I must stop seeing you cause you know too much . . . and if you really knew me you would know more than eye and that would mean I was digressing . . . . who cares as long as I'm undressing . . . then all my friends would call me digressive and none of my art would be all that impressive . . . and people would stop asking me if I had progressed enough to be tested . . .
. . . . . . . . . but back to dating . . . . . . . . .
It seems like (and I am not trying to stereotype here) all you guys who don't know me that well want to win the sac race against me. In the words of Shayla . . . 'It's a fast world'. . . damn . . . If I slow down I start observing my very own entropy and start to really like it . . . I'm only dealing with my own mind games here . . . I mean - I can stay in bed and fight to keep my own hands of this . . . well . . . snobby, fortified temple of flowers. Do you not learn from anything? Or in this case - nothing? Why would I blow you off? Why would I reject your invitation? You behaved in a way that I did not appreciate more than once. DON'T YOU KNOW WHO I AM? I am the daughter of the son of ecaroL. Recognize. I need one of those remote control shock collars as a prospect dating tool for corrections. If you fuck up, I just release some voltage into your trachea. So that way . . . no one has to argue or ask stupid fucking questions or beat around the bush of 'what's really going on here.' Light bulb: What if I dated guys that did not need shock therapy?
Hmmmm . . . .
Then you get not to know who I really am . . . then I must stop seeing you cause you know too much . . . and if you really knew me you would know more than eye and that would mean I was digressing . . . . who cares as long as I'm undressing . . . then all my friends would call me digressive and none of my art would be all that impressive . . . and people would stop asking me if I had progressed enough to be tested . . .
. . . . . . . . . but back to dating . . . . . . . . .
It seems like (and I am not trying to stereotype here) all you guys who don't know me that well want to win the sac race against me. In the words of Shayla . . . 'It's a fast world'. . . damn . . . If I slow down I start observing my very own entropy and start to really like it . . . I'm only dealing with my own mind games here . . . I mean - I can stay in bed and fight to keep my own hands of this . . . well . . . snobby, fortified temple of flowers. Do you not learn from anything? Or in this case - nothing? Why would I blow you off? Why would I reject your invitation? You behaved in a way that I did not appreciate more than once. DON'T YOU KNOW WHO I AM? I am the daughter of the son of ecaroL. Recognize. I need one of those remote control shock collars as a prospect dating tool for corrections. If you fuck up, I just release some voltage into your trachea. So that way . . . no one has to argue or ask stupid fucking questions or beat around the bush of 'what's really going on here.' Light bulb: What if I dated guys that did not need shock therapy?
Hmmmm . . . .
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