Ophelia snaps—just like a lot of people who spend their lives obeying other people without any sense of personal agency.
The smallest moment of what a real couple might have been, this when I was typing out Scott's term paper and he purchased breakfast egg rolls. Cleaned while I typed, this young man whose act of making love to a twenty-four year old woman was an act of self hatred because I had a Penmate clamped between my teeth, fearing the pain; I must have looked like a literal developmental troll, however, rubbery mouth and flushed face-- but in that instantaneous domestic idyll, it was a nice warm sunny moment when I could almost forget my exile to nigger land.
Still alive, towering inferno of spent embers, it just dawned on me that poor Mr. Bryan telephoned to taunt me a year after he broke with me because I taunted John with TMI while the involvement with Scott was ongoing, and payback is a bitch, or an episode of Grey's Anatomy.
I have been awake since two pm yesterday, and urge myself at the very least not to tweet these maudlin tendencies. Every woman has some hymen folly, perhaps not as grotesque as a felt marker bit, but I concede that Google's algorithm is more powerful than my discretion. I did not want him to leave me, this terse and anemic cocaine user. Odd isn't it? At forty two I wanted to kill Frank the minute I let him touch me, the intimacy with his decomposing fat and folds of skin was the ultimate act of self flagellation. Philip Roth's chunky cheap shot hit an on switch, and I have been blooming for business since I finished my notes on the last page. Scott had a firm ass in tight nylon underwear. The havoc of hiring a hustler, which I have never done, almost feels like a lethal dare, and if I tried to track my last affair, wouldn't the wife try to kill me? Did I forget how long ago this was? I need to leave Presby, seriously.
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