"I don't know what to tell you." -- the common toxic phrase of those without brain damage
On a lark I looked up my old history teacher. His telephone number is exactly the same, it seems, as when I was drifting away from his guidance way back in the city of Chester. He is not Jerry, which is obviously an arcane thing to write. My puppy love and melodramatic adolescent manipulation of the man is long dead, but not when it comes to Jerry. My subconscious keeps using the itinerant Shakespearean to torture me, and I know why and even realize what it's doing, but I cannot beat my breasts and flay myself alive either. He was Italian, the history teacher, and I'm guilty of having pulled on him too hard, just as the absence of presence of Christopher and Dana Reeve haunts me for no good reason on the face of the Earth. It may have something to do with how quickly the couple died.
Don't have little brothers. Don't drop your mask, split your heart fifty times over more than anyone deserves. Mine has particular reasons why he scuttles behind the credenza, hiding like any vulnerable mammal. I've never used it against him, the circumstances of his birth, and thus never imagined we'd be here. He lurks around my online profile and won't return my phone calls, rescinded his invitation to pay a visit. I would have enjoyed being a proactive aunt; I won't rumble to the extent of thundering fuck the little bastard, but will slam something with our tried and true idiomatic sealant.
Fuck it. Find someone like Beghe, a man whose maturity seems well preserved and therefore sexually interesting, spreading your legs over his shoulder blades to stop spasmodic jack knives of pain when on the receiving end. He plays his conniving cop with the orchestrated poise of a Capuchin. I'd like one but would have to let the cats go, in fun and games with a preposterous movie. Then again, what would I do with a primate trained to flick switches and pick things up. At some point it would bite me.
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