rambling
…and then her breasts became angry — leaping down upon me from above, thrashing into me with sheer, lacy, adulterous rage, nipples clenched in fists of blunt pokiness, and —

(Sorry… that’s not quite how it happened…)

…and then her breasts became angry! But only for a moment… they were, by nature, quite heavy, and it did not take long for their ire to abate, leaving them, once again, the sagging, fleshy bags of porridge with which she would pummel me in the skull as her own special, sadistic mode of foreplay… Contusions! Contusions! Contusions! A bumpy, red welt! I weep…

“Are you bipolar?”
“No, I’m antarctic… but I’d like to be equatorial!”

“If I’m going to leave by noon, I’d better get my ass in gear here…”
“Well, you just let me know if you need a jump-start…”

Pizza leads to beer… beer leads to cigars — cigars, to vodka… and then — Apoplexy! Apoplexy! Apoplexy! —
…and then there is death.

This is my horoscope for today: “You are severely depressed. You will not die, but may become horribly maimed. Your enigmatic personality needs a treat — buy yourself something frilly and fun, like a new bra… take it to a pharmacy and ask if you can get ‘this prescription’ filled.”

‘Horoscope’ sounds like what the pioneers might have used to look for prostitutes.

No, no, I know it may seem so, but rest assured — I do not have an obsession with whores…
Yes, of course you’re right… I really do. But that’s sort of an improvement — it opens things up tremendously, since before today I’ve written about nothing but breasts for a week.
(I’m half kidding… I’ve only been writing about left breasts…)
I don’t know what any of this means, I hope you realize… hell, I wasn’t even in the room when most of it hath done been writ! I was in the barn… (refraining from any sort of reference to ‘milking time’)
I never milk the right side of the cow… after about four days, they can only walk in clock-wise circles…

sigh~