Editing this today

I mean, what I'd really like to do is tell certain parties what I think of them ... pussies. But instead, this:

“You look awful,” he says, and kisses me again.

It’s like the mixed-message fairy came and presented me with a big old lap dance. It’s the kind of thing that would normally put me on hyper-edge, make me tense and then tense some more. Instead I find myself falling into it, kissing him back.

No one ever said life made sense.

“Don’t be scared,” he says, and leads me to a soft, high edge. A bed.

“I’m not.”

“Hey,” he says, “I can relax you.”

The bong is shaped like Yoda. I’m not sure if it’s his or someone else’s and how he got it.

Who cares, right? Except you lose control when you’re high. You say things you shouldn’t say. You do things that should only remain fantasies.