Smudge

Day 33

When Christina flies home on Sunday and I have time to sit and let it all pour out, I will. But right now, all I have is the few momentary minutes to consider things, before going to sleep behind my Iron fence of composure. Surely, this is irrational even for me. My lifestyle has turned into a one of those novels, uneducated and badly mannered sluts read on their swimming pool vacations. Each day is a page being turned by those varnish coated claw-nails, attached to fickle, orange fingers.

Maybe its not a bad beginning and one day this trashy novel could turn into Dostoyevski? I tried reading Dostoyevski once, I almost chewed my own arm off by the third chapter. It seemed like a far more exciting activity at the time. Okay, maybe we'll go for Oscar Wilde, my latest fixation.

I love you, although I yearn to hate you every single day. See you in hell, I guess? Because we will both be there, somehow.

Goodnight, Smartguy.