..biTches who bruNch..

v

why do you suppose we feel compelled to chase the ones who run away? immaturity?

marquise de merteuil said it. her tone so exquisite, her struggling limbs hanging from branches, dropping letters into perfect piles of intricate leaves. why is it so--why is it that we shun those who care about us the most? is it a 'daddy left me' syndrome? are we doomed for endless years of failed love?

what the fuck is love anyway.but a bunch of scrambled leaves.

fuck your perfect pile.my i's cross my t's and my z's snooze your y's.
why why why why.not.

it is beyond my control. pick up my x's where you left them.

v

i trace the crevices between each finger, watching the sand dissipate in my forearm, counting the lovers through each crack--

the fuck-up circling my middle finger. hello wanker, how the fuck do you do.rising to the one who never truly wanted 'me,' who now rests between my four finger, giving ambiguous high fives to my new project sitting.
thumbs up. a home-base even i can't outrun.
   no, i didn't forget you pinkie man, watching him throwing his arms out
hellahellahella yalla hear i am.my eardrums sinking in deep
shovels.
   stop swimming in my tears.i said.
   stop drowning my ring man.
i'm gonna find another you.
   naked. with all your clothes on.

v

v

i want to change my address to last night's wet dream.

addonizio said it, she said it so possessively, an arrow wounded in her amygdala,
spreading her lungs flat on a chair, unhooking her ribs.
a part-time lover knocking at her door, his bubble toes seeping through the crack.
i can smell him on my neck. i can smell him under my supercillium, under my jowl draining the vein that runs me away.

mona lisa told me it was him.
the sphinx hankered after him.
the manchego desired him.

my pretty wings are cut, my boots straddling my thighs so high you can taste the cham(pain).
so tell me. tell me when you hear my heartbeat. when i leak honey into your parietal lobe.
sign it on a scrap of paper. crumple it or tear it or throw it away.

there's a possibility.

v

Love is a hot shower where your skin never prunes.

Ladies, if you want to know the way to my heart...good spelling and good grammar, good punctuation, capitalize only where you are supposed to capitalize, it`s done.

I don`t mind making sissy rock... I`ll rock your ass sensitive-style

Sometimes I wish that I was the weather, you`d bring me up in conversation forever. And when it rained, I`d be the talk of the day.

Numb is the new deep, done with the old me, and talk is the same cheap it`s been.

Life is like a box of crayons. Most people are the 8-color boxes, but what you`re really looking for are the 64-color boxes with the sharpeners on the back. I fancy myself to be a 64-color box, though I`ve got a few missing. It`s ok though, because I`ve got some more vibrant colors like periwinkle at my disposal. I have a bit of a problem though in that I can only meet the 8-color boxes. Does anyone else have that problem? I mean there are so many different colors of life, of feeling, of articulation.. so when I meet someone who`s an 8-color type.. I`m like, "hey girl, magenta!" and she`s like, "oh, you mean purple!" and she goes off on her purple thing, and I`m like, "no - I want magenta!"

I`d like to think the best of me was still hiding up in my sleeve.

Everybody is just a stranger, but that`s the danger in going my own way.

v

Dance
By Kim Addonizio

When you are finally, magically, able to clone yourself into several identical women, so that each one can move toward a man who’s been waiting for his turn to come around for the first time, or maybe again,won’t you be happy then,all of you together in a lustrous ballroom,each woman wearing her distinguishing number,

the judges scoring everyone the same, music spilling from the bandstand, the men thrilled to be near you, each one whispering a different pet name, each one polishing with his black shoes a perfect circle of floor
while
   he
   raises
   you
   up, holding your hips in his hands, gazing at you with his brown or mottled green eyes, looking down with his startling blue ones, taking you into a corner then spinning you out toward the center where the light from the mirrorball splinters over your skin, sidereal as your sequined dress, and you feel as complete as you’ll ever feel, moving through all your true and beautiful lives

while the real one pales.

v

i am currently seeking the following: a normal man.
1. you say normal, i say compos mentis-show me a man who's peculiar.eccentric.lucidus.a well-adjusted man who sweats emotional stability. give me this-and i'll give you ill give you :)
2. must have clive owen's charm and eric bana's face.(tastes like you but sweeter.)
3. must understand the notion of 'la homme fatale.' (in case you're incapable of making 'rational' decisions at one point, please don't complain. there's only room for one needy person in this triangle.)
4. must understand the cataleptic spasm that stirs in my flesh- indifferent, irresponsible, insensible, poisoning.
5. must be able to seduce me, at all times.
6. i am seeking the obsessive, the compulsive, the neurotic, social-manic paranoid butterfly- ... basically normal.
7. histrionic personality disorder: pattern of excessive emotionality and attention-seeking, (with an excessive need for approval and inappropriate seductiveness). commit to memory.
8. must play NO games: frisky pup seeks some tail. tired of going in circles.
9. ill be the baby seagull- you feed me regurgitated raw fish--i'll provide the vomit inducer, you bring the strap-on beak. (no weirdos, please.)
10. must hate cats. if you're allergic, i'm in love.
11. must speak innocent english.
12. must have a high credit score: with a lot of points accrued, you may get away with cheating on me (jk) (focus valentina, normal. focus. focus.)
13. an intelligent man: just because you're into algebra, U + I does not = 69
14. im seeking a rich old man with a bad heart and no relatives, (just kidding, but what a great ending? )

P - provocative (or seductive) behavior
R - relationships, considered more intimate than they are
A - attention, must be at center of
I - influenced easily
S - speech (style) - wants to impress, lacks detail
E - emotional lability, shallowness
M - make-up - physical appearance used to draw attention to self
E - exaggerated emotions - theatrical

v

hey realize now my friend, for i'm crouched in a whole like a mud-streak fugitive. and here i am my arms wrapped around my knees, my sneakers laceless. i am ready to run, and who gives a shit where i'm going. quite ironic when you give all you have in order to give yourself to the moment, to only find time to place your bluff on hold...to only have it hang up on you. (times out...don't you think.)

you're rigid, yes you. pathologically addicted. your sense of demeanor so filthy like the pits of a thousand endorphins waiting to bathe. yet you let them sweat, yes you, your smile widening, the stench roasting, the mind re eking. the taste of distastefulness becomes pleasant.

do you find me odorless? my powerfulness. (i like a little dirty with my clean.) well, then let me shower you with words made of knives, for if you're slicing me with love allow me to bleed in vanity. let my sadness permeate the smell of pine trees, of crouching tigers, and eyeless pumpkins; of whining bottles, pitiless dams, and crooked smiles.

make believe you're brave, the trick will take you far. you may be as brave as you make believe you are. i'm back to black, (my soul laced in fuck you pumps, bathing in a tub of sociopaths).

v

I sweat coffee—sweat it through my nostrils, and the back of my palms, and sometimes when I’m really excited, I catch the stuff peeping behind my toes. You know- the big fat one, with the delicious callous attached to the bone, Splenda sweet, but oh so good. Oh look, here comes tall latte number eight. And a Times. Just take it you asshole. Don't sit there perusing the headlines as if you haven't decided whether the events of the world are important enough for you today. And what'll it be? A latte? What a surprise. You, my friend, are dynamic. You're a firecracker, you.

Jesus. Well, here it comes. Frappachinos, fucking Frappachinos, the most inanely complicated beverage known to man. You might as well ask for a couple of damn mojitos while you’re at, because I would love to run across the damn street to Mangos and grab you some God damn mint leaves, because you're so damn special. Just wait. Just wait till you realize no one will ever love you if you're visible in side-view and start drinking iced black drip with two equals like the big girls do.

I just hope your boss finds out. I hope he brings it up at one of the "team meetings." I hope he uses you as an example and points out that you're not "working as part of a whole" or "being a link in the chain." I hope he blasts your ass so bad that all the little Starbies shit their khakis and trade in their shifts to work in co-ops and stop shaving their armpits. I hope he gets so mad that the vein in his forehead bursts and the foam slurping teeny boppers puke bitter when they see his face and run out on Starbucks so fast that they trip over the lives they left behind and fall face first into non-beverage identities, shards of real existence, personality shrapnel. I hope they all leave and you can stand here alone, shoving your damn apron through the grinder, drinking the pulp of your bane and spitting out the grounds, screaming at the top of your lungs that coffee is dead and so are we.

Damn drones. Write my name on a cup, for I weep caramel.

v

ok, so my blog seems to center itself around emotionally unstable men, PIGS, and everything else that probably makes me seem extremely depressed, anal-retentive, un-emotional, and pissed off at the world...but in reality, i am anything but. I'm actually VERY sarcastic and majority of my postings relate to the world, not to me. Below is something i found googling, ( i love to google.) and its from a woman who is LITERALLY searching for an UNSTABLE (algerian) man. i couldn't stop laughing, and had to post this because HECK, what's another person thinking im a man-eater gonna do to my life? nada.... ps. my thoughts are interrupted in the quotes...so love me, or leave me the fuck alone, boop. :)

"Ok I will make this brief=I want to make some emotionally unstable Algerian male friends--Some criteria: Yells alot, Talks to himself while p*ssed off, (*who the HELL wants this!!!!!!) Gets emotional when talking about certain holidays, people, soccer teams, Can't seem to bring himself to eat out ( likes to make his own food),(*wow, what a cheap-ass.) Actually listens to CHEIKH HAMADA, Has 2 leather jackets, (*only two? hahahaha, what if he has three!!! fuck.) Wont wear anything he cant wear a leather jacket with, (*this bitch is obsessed, eh?) Somehow is convinced that his best friend has turned against him-Cannot bring himself to get another car although his car is 15 years old and has 300,000 miles, (*i mean, really?) -I really would like to say I would like to meet a normal guy but normal guys usually think I am too weird so I say BRING ON THE MAHBOULS. (* i don't even want to know what this means.)

About me: I am cute. Nothing more nothing less. (*bitch must be FUGLY.) Not exceptionally bright. (*clearrrrrrly) Not exceptionally pretty. But very patient. I need a crazy crazy Algerian and I promise I will love him to death. (* promises fade you little tramp.)

please be on the lookout for my lunatic----Looks unimportant. (*obvvvvviously.) Level of insanity is crucial. No normal men need apply. (* i would love to meet this maniac.) I kind of find myself very attracted to very ugly men so don't worry about looks. (*is this a joke?) What is important is that he is a complete pain in the @&*. I love that in a man. In fact, the more annoying and eccentric the better." (* she's every man's dream.)

Love you

__________________
SAHA

v

.why MEN you meet in nightclubs should NOT be added to your repertoire of potential "boyfriends" :

1)their lungs are a shade darker, (i mean, foo.)
2) squadron failure: any man standing alone is indeed a pathetic expectation.
3) crusty cheesy lines will not benefit you once you've gained 10 lbs., or right after he cheats on you. (this is a fact, my fellow lads.)
4) holding an intellectual conversation in a room filled with genital retards dancing in circles, can't be any more romantic than it sounds. and don't take this for granted: this is NOT sexy body language. it's just not.
5) nightclubs are all about STIMULUS: understand this.appreciate this.write this on a sticky note and stick it to your forehead.
6) now, with that disclaimer, all of the unnecessary garbage lingo (zzzz) is just that: why sweet talk a woman when
she CAN'T hear you?
7) glass of wine: shots: ugly man: more shots: cuter ugly man: groping breasts: tequila: one-night stand. (ladies, don't let your inhibitions fail you.)
8) men in nightclubs are frequent fliers: they can ONLY add to their mileage by talking to numerous women during the night. when it's your turn, acknowledge this: never feel special. no, i'm sorry. you are NOT one of a kind. You are just ONE of many.(kind of.)
9) stroking his penis with your hips is NON-VERBAL communication gone WRONG. get your ass back to the bar, you dirty SLUT. (not cute.)
10) oh, and don't equate his dancing skills to his bedroom skills: 'o eh, o eh, o eh, o eh, the rhythm is gonna get you...'

rough.

v

yes, you, you masochistic lion. look at you-meddling a little lamb, leaving her tail left behind her, so ms.fuckyoubo beep can race over hillocks (as any shepherdess should) to only find it hung on a tree...suspended....

it's a sad sad world isn't it, for a bad bad girl to be careless with a delicate man. the devil wants to know for she's a criminal in her own imagination, arrested for knowing, for loving, for executing the impossible...for chasing pavements and bending spoons.

and then you raise her. damn you with your cold shoulder, parked in front of you with her tail now bent between her legs, disappointed, barking. it's exhilarating isn't it? we all want to be right as the rain, yet a few of us fear the unattainable. and for what? to bottle one another, to just sit there and hold it for a million years? to go hungry.to go cold.to go blue.to go effortless.to grow regretful.
wipe that dirty smile, will you.
,and solve this riddle...if love is black, what color am you?
haphazard yellow. lover
so settle with my bones.

v

so romeo and juliet fall in love. two star-crossed lovers entangle in a tragic romance stretching back to antiquity. romeo courts her during her soliloquy, developing a minor love bite: an addiction he cannot refuse, to say the least.

knock, knock. (come in genesis.) it is he who bears us the tale of adam and eve, commanding them to be fruitful and to multiply, throwing in a tempting serpent slier than every beast of the field. 'let us make man,' here, under the tree of knowledge within the ribs of a woman..."and the eyes of the two of them were opened."

drunk love: the kind of intoxication that seems bearable; the state-of-mind that seems acceptable; a quasi-physiological syndrom of addiction that seems so, ...perfect. i've questioned it before, but is this what 'love' really is? an addiction? when one requires a great amount of substance in order to obtain a desired effect? do the manifestations and tolerance stay the same? allow me to comprehend, for i am puzzled.

i once met a man, his body covered in art so soft and supple. i would kiss his pictures in complete darkness, when i couldn't see them, until i faced a dragon taking him until we were quiet on the sheets. and if by instinct i would glare at his fire throbbing from his throat, speechless yet seared to ashes ...

"oh happy dagger! this is my sheath; there rust, and let me die..." and let me stick you into my mouth, the way i load my pistol pulling back the top barrel loading bullets into fire chambers, as you sit there and watch me inhale.

(because it'll be the biggest god damn breath i've ever had to take.)

v

what i would do to THIS man...sigh; i'm speechless.

v

mister.duplicity,

does she speak eloquently.

is she perverted like me.

and are you thinking of me when you f*ck her.

alanis sang it, she sang it so damn rigid and raw i can almost wipe the sweat off her top lip every time she screams it.and she screams it so well. so nasty. her tongue is a battle scar for every son of a bitch who ever screwed her; with one hand in his pocket- the other one is smoking a cigarette.

do i stress you out- sitting here begging for deliverance with my t-shirt on backwards, and relentless. i'm tired. let me not repeat myself- im humble by your humble nature.but please stop questioning me.stop giving a damn about me without a permission slip, because i don't recommend signing where your heart gets trembled by anyone. (i certainly don't.)

and why are you so petrified of silence? life has a funny way of sneaking up behind you when you think everything is going wrong, and then everything blows up in your face. you've already won me over. (in spite of me.)

you,

you outta know. this is ironic: we're all a bunch of space cakes-swallowed.naked in a living room.let me not remind you of the mess you left when you went away; when the smoke clears, when the water absorbs.

v

it's interesting to think how persistent life really is; four simple letters that can bring any being back to its final destination. you see a man practically slam into a yellow cab, to only find yourself running into death at the nearest intersection, as a certain someone runs a red light. who assigned these colors anyway?

×īα̣йmu: sτileττo sτonєrs.

for i have nothing else to say.

v

what do women want

by:kim addonizio

i want a red dress.

i want it flimsy and cheap,

i want it too tight, i want to wear it

until someone tears it off of me.

i want it sleeveless and backless,

this dress, so no one has to guess

what's underneath.i want to walk down

the street past Thrifty's and the hardware store with all those keys glittering in the window, past Mr.and Mrs. Wong selling day-old donuts in their cafe, past the Guerra brothers slinging pigs from the truck and onto the dolly, hoisting the slick snouts overtheir shoulders. i want to walk like i'm the only woman on earth and i can have my pick.

i want that red dress BAD.

i want it to confirm

your worst fears about me,

to show you how little i care about you

or anything except what

i want. when i find it, i'll pull that garment

from its hanger like i'm choosing a body

to carry me into this world, through

the birth-cries and the love-cries too,

and i'll wear it like bones, like skin,

it'll be the goddamned

dress they bury me in.

You Don't Know What Love Is.

by: Kim Addonizio

You Don't Know What Love Is
but you know how to raise it in me
like a dead girl winched up from a river. How to
wash off the sludge, the stench of our past.
How to start clean. This love even sits up
and blinks; amazed, she takes a few shaky steps.
Any day now she'll try to eat solid food. She'll want
to get into a fast car, one low to the ground, and drive
to some cinderblock shithole in the desert
where she can drink and get sick and then
dance in nothing but her underwear. You know
where she's headed, you know she'll wake up
with an ache she can't locate and no money
and a terrible thirst. So to hell
with your warm hands sliding inside my shirt
and your tongue down my throat
like an oxygen tube. Cover me
in black plastic. Let the mourners through.

v

*to believe in love at first sight...and then close your eyes.

*to measure your hydration based on the color of your urine, and right when it's super yellow, shake your head in disappointment.

*to be shady, even when it's so sunny outside.

*to stare until you tear, just because it feels so good to be sad.(forced.)

*to find fate.to follow it.to not care where you end up.

*to love, loathe, and lust in the same moment.

*to give your self away, and then dwell...silently.

*to drink, and then bite.

*to never buy a whole chocolate bar, but instead three mini versions.less fat.less forgiving.

*to be confused for who you are, who you aren't, and for who really cares.

*to stare at your gas light and wonder how far it can take you before you run out.and when you stall do it all over again, because it excites you all over again.

*to believe in lyrics.to memorize them, and then sing them pretending your're talented.

*to be fascinated by the eccentric, the wicked, the utterly voluptious covered in art.

*to be fascinated.

*to have a face you cannot show.

*to re-assure yourself over and over, because this is not who you are.

*to believe humans are the only mammals who propogate, and then die.

*to believe nothing's going to change your world.

*to check your backseat in search of an intruder, and then lock your doors when you slowly creep up to a bum at the light.

*to pretend you're on the phone to get out of situations...and when it rings, swear at it in confusion... damn you.

*to read bbmessages and leave them there...read, and encrypted with a tiny r...and then never reply.

*to remove your birth year on facebook, because you are INDEED getting old.

*to.

v

it's the sort of vertical groove above the upper lip that keeps me smiling, stretching out dimples to reveal a tiny little canyon that indents so perfectly. (and i swear i would pierce one if i was indeed certain it would make me a little normal--a little more like you.)

so what is desire anyway but an invisible biochemical war? if i had my pick, i would bottle it up in a perfect, miniscule tube and pass it on, one puppy in heat at a time. and i would do it so mindless, at times allowing it to rest right there on the philtrum, right where survival is rich.raw.ripe.unintentional.

is this the formula for chemistry? tell me.take a whiff and tell me what you think. because i've met joe black and i'm tired of smelling.i've met him in all forms: tired and lonesome, witty and incapable of loving, young and feeble, young and wandering.i've met him intentionally, and at times unconsciously lying there on the ground with nothing to look forward to but a sip of water and a circular toilet seat that i would wake to, vomiting inconspicuously.and then here comes science and evolution knocking at my door, presenting some insane laws of attraction that i'd be damned to adhere to.

the science is duplicity.God gives us two arms, two legs, two earlobes, one throat yet two tonsils, one nose with two nostrils.but the heart comes alone, beating against the bosom, a sort of locus of feelings and intuitions.a fist, wrapped in blood.a sort of paper-plane folded in half in order to make a perfect, intricate, single origami fly without a murmur; fly without a scent.

v

i exhale and your face appears amid the cloud that named you.i sit back write knee over the left, watching in humility as your nose contorts and entwines sideways like the lips that i trace when i place my lips up to kiss you;

your hands, a sort of chronometer, taught to fear daylight like the little girl missing from the swing that still swings (you). i sit in amusement, appreciating the rain that brought you, bellowing at the moon that may take you away, and the stars that will wish on you as they watch you spurt in darkness.i can almost smell their chortle.i can almost hear ...you.YOU.you.

and so what.we are who we are because people don't change.people conform into twisted condensation, while others decide what such emotional upheaval is going to portray.

we're all a bunch of clouds, worshipping some sort of idiotic sun society presumes to be happiness.well, fcku the clouds, because i want to paint the portrait of love...and paint it completely undeserved.i want to paint it to look exactly like you. completely faceless.

v

dear 'dear' idiots,

this letter is to confirm why hitting on a waitress will get you nowhere in life.you're already inside the bar,and after a few drinks, and a lot of staring into the eyes of a beautiful woman,men tend to believe such folk are truly interested in their well-being. well, this is where you go wrong.you know the song, 'i'm only happy when it rains'..garbage isn't it? anyway,women who provide their services at a restaurant, a bar, or a nightclub do just that:provide service with an undefinable dose of charm that will knock any MORON off his feet.it's not only hereditary, it's practically a form of GEN(E)-ius...you tip us,we tip you.happy birthday, now go home.

THIS IS AN ACTUAL, REAL-LIFE EMAIL:

Hi,

this email is sent on the basis that your name is ....and you work at... if you are not please delete this email and i apologize for wasting your time.if you are please read on you may find this amusing.

Dear _____,

i am somewhat bemused by the situation in which i find myself.unless i have had a total brain snap something has gone radically wrong after out conversation on saturday night.and, not believing your average bloke with no ego i just need to get to the bottom of the issue.

1) i left the club with the impression that we were both interested in catching up.

2) i have to say (and this is not just the vodka red bulls) but i also left with the impression that you were a pretty spectacular sort of person-charming, down to earth, witty, and most of all, genuine.

3) i was also of the belief that we were going to chat in a more civilized fashion on monday.

since then i have tried to call on a few occasions and sent a couple of texts but have failed to make contact. now here comes the amusing bit. a man of lesser ego (some would say arrogance) would just put this down to:

1) "it was late night nightclub talk and ____ is not really interested."

2) "_____ is currently dating the quarterback for the miami dolphins."

3) "she had to talk to me i was blocking the bar."

4) "her best friend thought i was a dork. (i dont think she did, by the way, i think she thought i was pretty cool."

but, my mind couldn't accept any of these because, after all im ____ _____. and im thinking

1) there is a problem with my stupid australian phone and its not getting through.

2) she accidently gave me the wrong number.

3) she thinks im the sort of guy who constantly gets numbers in nightclubs from random girls.

4) he's not serious,he lives in NY and sydney, there must be a 1000 girls on his list...

etc.

WORD TO THE WISE, AND THE 'UN-WISE,' WAITRESSES ARE LIKE SALESPERSONS.WE MAKE YOU BELIEVE WE LIKE YOU SO YOU BUY THE BEST AND MOST EXPENSIVE THING OUT THERE, SO WE CAN MAKE MONEY OFF OF YOU.IT'S KINDA LIKE THE GAME OF USING.KEEP YOUR GUN IN YOUR PANTS, AND A STRAW IN YOUR MOUTH KIDS...THESE TYPES OF LADIES AREN'T BUDGING FOR ANYONE.GOOD DAY.

v

a fixation: we all need it. whether it's an entangled needle that gets you so high, you lose all sense of sensibility in life, yet you still find h(d)ope in that little dark black candle you call your cloud.(one that can possibly give you a drip of water because your tongue is so parched you can barely breathe.) or maybe it's that one significant human being that makes you hum over and over, 'nothing's gonna chaaaaange my world...,' as you enfold yourself into a tiny envelope, because yes you can fit, and then stamp it so silently you aimlessly forget to write a return address. go ahead...you can never fold this letter in half more than seven times.

love,

fiona apple.

or maybe it's just you. maybe you're your own favorite mistake, the way you let your grace rapture you. it's a dirty game...you will always be your own shadow boxer. (so wrap your fists tight because you never know when you're going to make your own move.)

v

no, i'm not talking about the 12 bottles of water you go through a week, or you know, PAPER, i'm talking about well, (past lovers). don't look so surprised you mindless monkey; i've come to appreciate this wonderful technique i call 'reusing.' it's a simple philosophy. you 're-use' those whom you've previously slept with, whether they were simple hook-ups, simple relationships, serious, invisible relationships, or, ok...i think you understand where i'm heading here.and this form of recycling can take place anywhere, as long as it involves the process of using people while pretending they're in actuality, new people, in order to prevent a waste of potentially 'use'ful people.comprende?

think about it-when you 're-use' you're one less ass-cheek of being called a whore, because hooking up with past lovers does NOT increase your number.no, it does not.let's dissect the basics here:

1) saves energy: you're wasted, you're horny, you're happy and you're looking so fly.what's more USEful than running into an old fling?you omit the greeting, the shaking hands, the exchanging numbers, the i don't give a shit what your name is, nonsense.kind of like recycling. statistics show a paper mill uses 40 percent less energy to make paper from recycled paper than it does to make paper from fresh lumber.this my friends, is good.

2) saves money: not that i'm assuming you would ever BUY sex, sigh, 're-using' usually comes with a) free bar tabs, b) free rides, (take your dirty mind out of the gutter) c) cell phone minutes, text messages,..i can go on.with pre-existing lovers, there really isn't a need for much communication.

3) saves trees: i'll let you ponder about this one.

i mean, who has relationships these days anyway? by using the technique i presented above, ex lovers are able to rekindle what they once lost: shit. you broke his heart because he cheated on you? aw, sweet.look at you now bambi-bending over backwards wearing limited elbow pads.you don't look so upset today. and for those of you who actually have 'true' love, please share with the rest of my lonely circle of friends here where you found this 'thing' you call real. is there a relationship land us pathetic souls have not surrendered to? tell me.indulge me.facilitate my wandering mind.because as much as i'd like to find it, for right now my main concern is making the earth a better, safer place; recycling has become my new hobby; recycling has become my 'real' friend.

live your life son...enjoy the irresponsibility, you filthy vixen.

v

subject a meets subject b; aside from the immediate attractions, you know, the wit, the personality, the small, whitish structures found and placed perfectly in the jaws, the luscious lips, the silky hair, the perfect, ridiculously-good looking ASS-ets, the perfect wallet, WHAT ELSE DO HUMAN BEINGS NEED? i mean, really?

lets take the spider monkey for example. with its disproportionate limbs and long, prehensile tail, who wouldn't skip a beat for this hot simianus? however, in this species, 'monkey see monkey do' is literal. monkey puss sees and inserts into 'makak zozo,' aka monkey dick. the female chooses her mate. there's no dating involved; there isn't even any hanging out. this woman knows what she wants and she goes out to get it without hesitation. and if ass is on her mind, this bitch uses a technique known as anogenital sniffing in order to see her mates readiness for copulation. (i'd jump on your back too.)

on the other hand, humans use a little more complication. in the end of every situation and every relationship, the jerks get JERKed off, and the women get a LACK of emotional intelligence. let's define: women tend to look deeper into the act of co-i-tus n. sexual union between a male and a female involving the insertion of the penis into the vagina. in a biological sense, after ejaculation the male's job is to naturally revert back as the aggressive hunter, whilst the females hypothalamus releases endorphins to nurture the seeded offspring. zzzz. fcku biology.males approach sex from a surface level: get in and get OUT.

and before you know it, we, as the wonderful idiots that we are, just naturally fall. this is my conclusion: women like people and men do NOT. men like objects, aka things, aka hi-fi systems, computers, riding with 200 on their dash'. men like rock-band. women like love, and the feeling of being loved and wanted. yet for a man, the physical act is just that: physical. you give him a time, a place, a condom, a comfortable bed (or not), and he WILL make things happen. the sexual conjunction is an end to itself, but for women we always "EXPECT" more.you fcku us, you leave us, and we don't receive a phone call, yet you still manage to text us how much you miss us once we leave.for every slim shady who's been accused of this act, please STAND up.

for all you retarted morons out there, (men), you splurge on honesty. "ive never lied to you..." zzz. before you proclaim that you're currently married, but practically separated, how about stating that you're just in this to have fun? oh, because you won't get laid if you actually tell the entire truth? it's quite charming how 'beautiful' and 'amazing' us women are before you sleep with us. if i could accumulate the numerous compliments i've received before engaging in sexual activities, i could write an effen book on how FCKING AMAZING I AM. bad luck bimbo? perhaps.

charlotte once screamed, 'did the last four-and-a-half hours mean anything to you?' (men: all together, "NO.") On a lighter note, doris lessing writes on the subject of sexual freedom in her book, 'the golden notebook': "free, we say, yet the truth is they (men) get erections when they're with a woman they don't give a damn about, but we (women) don't have an orgasm unless we love him. what's free about that?" and then we have carrie bradshaw who once asked, "in an age where women enjoy the same money and successes as men, why shouldn't women be able to enjoy sex like a man?well, let me explain...women can't read maps, and men don't listen.