meet joe black.

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.

great expectations.

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. 

suckers: aka, men who hit on waitresses.

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.

because you'd rather read a cartoon.

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.)