• It's so rehearsed. The smile, gestures, and even the posture. If you look close enough you can see all the little details that were thrown out on the massive, old-growth, over polished table of a business meeting before being intellectually raped by men with strong American names. Bob. John. Tim. All in custom tailored suits and ties.
    The ideas that tasted right in thier heavy-set mouths found a way onto her body, through some company or designer.
    I wonder if she knows she's made of the fantasies of 40/50-something aggressive intellectuals. The ones that run the country.

    I stare. And you elbow me in the ribs.

    "Goddamnit, quit staring at other girls."

    Hah, hah. I'm seeing something negative in a picture perfect girl and you're wearing your insecurities on your face. After being so lost in thought your pouted lip and selfish eyes demand absolute attention.
    I could take hours to explain it all and you'd still give me a skeptical look.
    So I don't say anything.
    Why bother? Why waste the breath and time to find ourselves back to banal attenuation?

    "You're such an a*****e." you say and I have to force myself not to laugh.

    This is our history. Cracks in the sidewalk turn into canyons that could still be bridged with a couple of words if we tried hard enough to be real. But who the ******** wants to work on a weekend?
    Who wants to work at all, for that matter?

    O, romance.

    O, tragedy.

    O, mother ******** emotion.

    I wish I could feel something.