Digital chirping.

Probably meaningless, possibly uninteresting, positively enthralling. The joy of technology re-enters my life thanks to Mr. Stephen Fry.

Hello there Stephen. I thorougly enjoyed your series on America. Although you will never read this it needed to be said none the less. Tweet on my friend, tweet on!

Accessorize, exercise, jizz.

Sex as a subject has become rather pathetic, to be frank. The myth that those who sleep with a lot of random people are really confident is complete and utter horse shit. In my experience men and women who behave in this way are in fact incredibly insecure. Constantly seeking confirmation and reassurance that they are as beautiful as they have convinced themselves. Is that acting secure? Turning sex into some sort of power game or just immediate gratification drains it of all passion. I don't want sex to just be pieces of meat flapping against one another. Marinated in alcohol and anxiety. People shouldn't be picked up like accessories. You are not the centre of the cosmos. Your fleeting happiness is not the answer to the mysteries of life. Get over yourself. And the two of you clumsily jamming your genitals together on your room mates well-worn old couch is not passionate and sexy. No matter how many times you repeat this lie to yourself in an attempt to maintain that  hard on/stay wet. I gave up one night stands some time ago. At first it wasn't a moral choice or even one that came out of any deeper introspection. It was just a path taken out of a practical nature. People in general are absolutely terrible at fucking. Just awful. The quality was never as good as with someone I got a little bit familiar with. People who have such low self-esteem that they pathologically need to swallow another human beings bodily fluids every weekend tend to not have been in many meaningful relationships of any greater lengths. Therefore they have, out of a strictly numerical standpoint, fucked far fewer times. Practice makes perfect. There appears to be a tipping point where the quality of the bedroom shenanigans and the quantity of sexual partners converge and then invert. Both in a grander scheme and in specific situations. Taking pride in appearing sexually attractive to people who will fuck just about anything is like being proud that you are Garry Glitter's search engine of choice. It's at best quite meaningless, at worst loathsome. Tickling the fancy of someone you find to be truly unique. Having them share their innermost contrivances. Being able to disappoint in a painful way. That is sexy. That is beautiful. Poking someone in the groin while trying to refrain from spewing because of the motion and too much tequila is not. Unknown people are not. Acting tough will never be.

The Man, part 4.

The gash was getting a whole lot worse. I was happy for her. Truly. But up to a point. My happiness, for her happiness, only went so far. I always suspected she would be better of with some other man than with me. Not necessarily this new one of course. At the same time I would gladly trade away a piece of her well-being for some more of my own. If it meant I'd have her by my side. Selfish, I know. What can I tell ya? Other women did not interest me as much. Nothing they ever did or said could make me as happy as her. Nor as sad. Obsession? Maybe. Piteous? Definitely. In the long run having people around me not fully knowing of my fixation made me feel somewhat more comfortable. It was as if I was some sort of spy leading a double life. Alright, it was never as exciting as that. I won't give you that impression. There were no secret meetings on the rooftops of Paris, exchanging microfilm for political prisoners. Maybe I was more like a cheating husband. Ironically "the other women" being my wife, her being my mistress. In my mind's eye. Damnit this band-aid itches! Then came Paige. The first someone who bothered. Tried to try. Her kindness offsetting her inability to understand me. That said; Paige has an uncanny ability to sense what parts of my personality are vulnerable and need mending. Had she been of crueler intent she could have pushed my buttons to the brink of meltdown. Destroying me with the littlest of ease. Maybe that's what I needed. A nuclear wind sweeping in. Rolling back all of the superfluous nonsense built up by society and myself. Is that what she was? My radioactive darling? Let's not get ahead of ourselves. As pleasant as our times together are I can sometimes sense that very certain uncertainty bubbling inside of me. No, it isn't just gas. It's bile (originating not from the liver but from years of rejection) that has fermented. And every once in a while it surfaces in the form of suspicion and fear. Was she really into me? Why would she be? Is she only playing with me? I never say such things directly, naturally. I hope I don't fuck this up. A little hate comes bleeding through.

A Modest Wish

To whom it may concern. (you know who you are) Your love is the child seat going through the windshield that is my heart in the great traffic collision of life. We two do not have time for rational solutions, we're wanted for assaulting a circus monkey. The perfect crime, some would say. The perfect crime for the perfect partner, that is you. As you well know there is a thin line between hugging someone and holding them down so that they can't escape. I will never escape from you, you're a much faster runner. So many memorable things have happened to us, unfortunately I can not remember any of these events. Does alcohol effect the memory? I think I read that somewhere once. In any event, I really like spending time with you. And also, you smell nice. Which is important in this smell-oriented modern world of ours. Here's hoping we won't grow tired of each other in the near future. - Dedicated to someone who did not love me. Ps. FUCK YOU!