Now You Will Receive Us
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When we meet, I'd like to think there will be pasta, candles, wine, side arms and a dank corner. I'd like to think you'd ask me for a favor. I'd like to think I'd grant you your wish. Then, I will inform you that the phrase, "History is written by the winner," is bullshit. I will ask you how the white man treated the Indian as he expanded west. I will then ask you who is the clear winner in that scenario. I will ask you who defeated Rome. I will then ask you who won that one. I will bring up example after example, yet I will not change your mind. Then I will kill you. It's your fault. I hate pasta. If we were eating a Thanksgiving turkey, then I wouldn't kill you. You fucked up didn't you.
I need to shit.
Your legs taste like heaven. You moan like a choir of angels praising the creator. You writhe in pleasure like a large snake stalking its prey. Your mouth opens and your eyes close as you clinch a fist in my hair and dig your nails into my back. I am filled with too much emotion. I can't take the beauty. I want to cry. You pull me in closer and whisper words I can't make out. I will never be able to paint you a picture. I will never be able to write you a poem. I will never be able to replace the sky with your image and have all things live beneath your beauty. I can only wish I were better. I can only make my mouth live in the small of your back every night. I can only live off the feeling you give me and the condensation you share with me.
4 Comments:
I thoroughly disapprove of duels. If a man should challenge me, I would take him kindly and forgivingly by the hand and lead him to a quiet place and kill him.
Mark Twain (1835 - 1910)
note to self: never meet Yossarian at Olive Garden.
stop it yer makin me horny
again yer flooring me with the ending.
chad mcgreevy likes gravy
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