Bad Lay
"Oh, I didn't know that. Nevermind."
"I don't want to sound mean. I'd hate to piss her off 'cause she cooks like a fucking wizzard!"
"Yeah, dude, her pork tenderloin's the shit."
"Too bad she's a bad lay."
"That's why I never asked her out; it'd be like going out with my mom, kind of."
Or are you all just too damn scared that I'd be the best you ever had?
No one wants the best they could ever have unless they could somehow keep it forever, or kill it.
I haven't met a boy bound for forever, or murder, so I remain untouched.
Funny, even though I had a real moment of worry that perhaps I had outlived my shelf-date, I believe deep down that I'm a good catch. Who knows, maybe when the cork is popped on this vintage it'll release the energy of a bronco-buster.
::daydreaming:why must one do it alone?::
There's no day off for me this week; no night out in the city. I have to work all weekend because the children's parents have gone out of town, but I am being paid extra for it, so I guess I'll endure. I'm a bit pissed that it's my first Halloween in NYC and I'm in the basement of this millionaire's Gold Coast family home with a keyboard at my fingertips.
This screen is like my looking glass in which I've fallen into a Wonderland. I've developed an adiction for these pages of journals and have begun to visit people I previously had never known. I ritualisticaly read, respond, reply, write, and wait. Then I leave for a few hours and take care of these children before returning to the screen. We are not all as candid as I feel I've been, but I enjoy breaking codes embedded in people's journals. It puts a bit of a challenge on my lifestyle if one of my friends is illusive.
Now it's time for touch, okay? Real people. Comfortable silences.
Someone fly to New York and hold me, and perhaps I'll give it up.
