I rub myself with each word
so I can deliver the goods. The
limits of the left are choking me.
Time to literally turn the ball
over. Pop a Tic Tac and be
mature. First off, I don’t
usually get anywhere. OK,
point is I really want a hambur-
ger to play with me. Each thought
sticks inside another, like those
Russian whatevers. Word is
gone. And is gone. But
rubbing tends to, you know,
same thing alternative device
does. Only nothing works now
that I just want him. Him with the
Tic Tac eyebrows and the misininter-
preted satiety. He’s the one that gets to
play with all the hamburgers. I’m the one
stuck inside a Russian whatever choking them.
