Some men, understandably, retreat to animals. Animals don’t talk. Animals don’t curse and say I love you.
Children like to giggle and run down hotel corridors. They like to be chased. I, on the other hand, like to get my dick sucked and listen to Scarlatti.
follow through revisited
I said it before: A florist’s is akin to a butcher’s. It’s the same impulse. Brutal. Egotistical. Human. Happy Mother’s Day.
I can imagine the day when we’ll all speak the same language. Or the day when technology will do it for us. I can imagine this day and luckily I’ll be dead and the leftover ones won’t know the difference.
Now I sip sulfite-free wine on the Boulevard de Ménilmontant while listening to Satie. I used to drive 100 M.P.H. down Greenland Road in my Mitsubishi Starion with White Zombie’s La Sexorcisto blasting and a bottle of $5 “champagne” nestled against my crotch, unconcerned about police or death