Bernadette's birds nest tea unfolds in my pint glass and my sensitive caffeine-addled brain is making up new scenarios: these late night pool table scenarios and regardless of what Lia might've said I feel ugly. Walking home, several hours of self-actualizing woman-power pep talks with shots of Jager and birthdays and great vibes and I still dissolve like a sugar cube in a rain storm.My body becomes shapeless as I walk home, I suspect many others do as well. As much as we talk, as much as we laugh, kiss, and shake each other alive - I suspect all of the burdens we throw on the table are carefully refolded and tucked into our hearts. We walk away with them because they're still there - leering. They crawl eagerly back into us and we are obliged to tend to them.
My brain is writing stories. Erotic ones. Cut and dry sex fulfilling enough to substitute food, water, sleep, and conversation. I am tired of having Danielle Steele residing in my hypothalamus. She probably doesn't write her own books anyway.
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