I posted something dirty last night. I was drunk. Now I’m hungover and pressing delete. If only drunk dials and one night stands could be erased with a big wide, rounded corners, delete button. Where’s Fisher Price when you need ’em? Maybe after my AM “fourbucks” run for the latte, I’ll be more apt to spread my proverbial legs to the world.
Here’s the clean part:
There has to be more than passion. But sometimes it’s so damn hard to keep your hands off one another. Still, passion alone never lasts, it’s just a reason for staying in the wrong relationship. These things never work out; chances are I won’t know him in a week. That’s why I’m here alone, listening to Linus whine because he wants to lick up my nose. “Get in line kid.” I tell him. And he crooks his head to the side, as if I’ve just barked at him.
I’m just not the type to play it safe and right. It’s so boring to be a cliche. To be a, “well I’ll let him persue me” woman. Still, I’m cliche enough to send him home and spend the night alone. I don’t mind it so much. I actually like it. It feels like a beginning.
Passion makes life better than anything fried or coated in chocolate. Lust, my friends, should be bottled. Maybe Merck should work that angle to make up for the Vioxx.
