Flexing

There is a fancy, nice, dress sort of style sweater from last Christmas. There is a beanie of orange and blue from a house a few houses ago, a couple of girlfriends before. There is a shirt left over from an art project, and pajama pants from a mother that wasn't yours but wanted to be. Other then that it is all the same. Another holiday. Another work week. Another Sunday distraction of beer and football. Or maybe champagne. Or pills. Or biscuits and gravy. Everything sounds good lately. Everything then some. I'd count the days to and after on my crooked fingers, using each separation to mark the rise and fall of the sun. But that is easy. The countdown is this: is it Christmas? No? Then put your head down and wait. Or plow though it. Or peek between your folded arms while your thumb is up and sneak a peak at the shoes of the girl who touches your thumb. But don't pick her. Pick the girl you think should have a life ending crush on you. You know what to do. Drink some orange juice. Take some vitamins. Spray some shit into your throat. Medicine. Then more medicine. You know how to heal yourself. Too bad you don't stop whatever happens between your sheets, in your bathroom, on the road or inside your own head that keeps getting you sick. Or at least let you stay healthy for the last eleven months. You'll be fine in the morning.

I know.

Because you are always fine.

Sidenote: go back to March. Stand up for yourself, your desires and your lust. Are you still sleeping in an empty bed? Does it hurt more? Does it hurt less?

Tomorrow, there is this idea that came into my head, about my hands, my tiny hands, that I want to expand on. You always think you can choke the life out of someone. But what if you can't even grip tight enough to make someone cum?