I can't blog at work. Here's a bit more of the nonsense rattling around in my head...when I'm supposed to be working.
That's not all
MCs...have the gall
To pray & pray for my downfall
You don't know nuthin' 'bout Biggie. I already know.
The thoughts that I most need to express are the ones that I can never reveal. The intense scrutiny and cross-examination that would follow their revelation would surely topple the house of cards that my existence has come to resemble. I dare not even consider what I truly feel lest the chaos ensue. Better to remain in chrysalis until the time for revelation & reflection is proper.
Sucks to be me, huh?
Maybe it’s pheromones. I’ve been in my own world for the last little while. I haven’t been dealing with people other than close family for weeks. Now, that I’m out & about...things are different. EVERY woman that I see flashes before my eyes in positions of passion: head back, face strained in a frozen rictus of pleasure.
It has to be pheromones.
It’s like the TV shows when the psychic sees a vision that no one else can view. “What is it? What do you see?” Except...I don’t freeze up long enough to build the backstory for a one-hour episode with mine. I have missed a step from a couple of them, though.
Her shoes are some hideous Book of Deuteronomy Israelite leather sandals. They’re at least 3” tall at the heel...you’d think that I’d be pleased given my penchant for appreciation of nice shoes on pretty women...but, no! These are ugly. They nearly distracted me from noticing that wagon she’s draggin’.
Then, there’s the blonde brickhouse from yesterday. *pant! pant! pant!*
The libidinous gears of testosterone-lubricated thought turn relentlessly forward as my mind slides appreciatively around the XX curves of homo sapiens phatassica. I should have other concerns, I know. Bills, parenting, my career, home, fitness, diet...these should preoccupy me because I’m an adult...and stuff. But, in all honesty, my life would just be existence if it wasn’t for my cross-cultural appreciation of nicely proportioned female secondary mammalian characteristics...the sheer, juicy goodness of womanity.
Still...
No matter how fine she is, some other guy is sick & tired of her bullshit!
Heh! Believable...but, every woman on this planet has at least a theoretical chance at me. (Whether they want it or not is irrelevant to this particular discussion.)
MCs...have the gall
To pray & pray for my downfall
You don't know nuthin' 'bout Biggie. I already know.
The thoughts that I most need to express are the ones that I can never reveal. The intense scrutiny and cross-examination that would follow their revelation would surely topple the house of cards that my existence has come to resemble. I dare not even consider what I truly feel lest the chaos ensue. Better to remain in chrysalis until the time for revelation & reflection is proper.
Sucks to be me, huh?
Maybe it’s pheromones. I’ve been in my own world for the last little while. I haven’t been dealing with people other than close family for weeks. Now, that I’m out & about...things are different. EVERY woman that I see flashes before my eyes in positions of passion: head back, face strained in a frozen rictus of pleasure.
It has to be pheromones.
It’s like the TV shows when the psychic sees a vision that no one else can view. “What is it? What do you see?” Except...I don’t freeze up long enough to build the backstory for a one-hour episode with mine. I have missed a step from a couple of them, though.
Her shoes are some hideous Book of Deuteronomy Israelite leather sandals. They’re at least 3” tall at the heel...you’d think that I’d be pleased given my penchant for appreciation of nice shoes on pretty women...but, no! These are ugly. They nearly distracted me from noticing that wagon she’s draggin’.
Then, there’s the blonde brickhouse from yesterday. *pant! pant! pant!*
The libidinous gears of testosterone-lubricated thought turn relentlessly forward as my mind slides appreciatively around the XX curves of homo sapiens phatassica. I should have other concerns, I know. Bills, parenting, my career, home, fitness, diet...these should preoccupy me because I’m an adult...and stuff. But, in all honesty, my life would just be existence if it wasn’t for my cross-cultural appreciation of nicely proportioned female secondary mammalian characteristics...the sheer, juicy goodness of womanity.
Still...
No matter how fine she is, some other guy is sick & tired of her bullshit!
Heh! Believable...but, every woman on this planet has at least a theoretical chance at me. (Whether they want it or not is irrelevant to this particular discussion.)
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