The Stolen Earth

I have two rabbits: Shlomo and Caramel.


Are you asking yourself what sort of 27 year old man (dare I say "man") has two bunnies? Is it that having two rodents living with me eases the never-ending loneliness caused by an escapeless abyss-like depression? Is it that they are my best, and only friends? Could it possibly be that I model for them naked in order to watch them recoil in disgust, thereby confirming my life-long thesis: Naked Jews Are Never Sexy To Rabbits?

Some questions are better left unanswered.

You might also wonder: what sort of man names his rabbits Shlomo and Caramel? Well, kind, gentle, voluptuous, sexually voracious reader, I'll let you in on a little secret...I only named one of them. Can you guess which one?

5 things you might not know about rabbits:

1) They eat their poop.
2) They taste delicious in a white-wine sauce.
3) They LOVE it when you pick them up and call them "wuggums".
4) They don't laugh at you when you discuss your hopes and dreams.
5) They are alcoholics (check above picture closely to see what I mean)...that's why we get along so famously.

I think the most important question I can ask myself; why am I writing about Rabbits? The answer, kind sir/lady, is I dunno. Not even "I don't know" but "I dunno". I don't even have enough inspiration créatrice to write it out fully.

So confused am I that I must truncate my language. I guess that means I have little slash nothing to say or write. At least my rabbits are fucking cute. Right?


Are they cute? I can't tell...

My Computer Is My Friend, Right?

There's nothing wrong with personifying my computer
it's silver, luscious and sweet
if someone tried to mug me, my computer would be all like
"hey, fuck off, that dude's awesome"
then the mugger would kill me
and the computer would be sad for not feeling sad:
"WHY CAN'T I FEEL HU-MAN EMOTIONS?"
then it would go have a computer orgy with a coupla 386s to forget
because my computer likes floppy discs
still, it left me to die
why didn't my computer call 911?
perhaps it's anti-Semitic
fuck!

BTW, i think this is actually a picture of a dream i've been having for 20 odd years...(NSFW...unless you work in an awesome place)

The Girl with the Jello feet

The Girl with the Jello feet

The girl with the Jello feet walked
wobbly
but with a swagger
like "yeah, i've got fucking jello feet, wanna dance, maestro?"
one day the dogs came
frothing, seething wet
munched her legs into nothingness
and now she's the girl with no feet
and whenever she has dessert in her hospital bed
she feels like a cannibal


I Have No Regrets

I have no regrets
except everything i've ever done
well, that's not true
one time i had this really delicious hummus
it was a good life choice
i can't think of anything else

Friday Nights With The Crew

INT. APARTMENT - DAY

IAN, MATT, FRANCI sit on couches.

FRANCI
What did you guys do this weekend?

IAN
Oh man, you know what goes on for me.
Beers and chicks...beers and chicks.

CUT TO:

INT. DINING ROOM - DAY

IAN is wearing NERD GARB and playing dungeons and dragons.

IAN
My plus 5 broadsword is too much for
your lame ass paladin spell.

A NERD looks upset.

NERD
Fuck you, Ian.

Ian SLAPS the Nerd.

IAN
My name is Skulltor the magnificent.

CUT TO:

INT. APARTMENT - DAY

FRANCI
What about you, Matt?

MATT
Oh, you know, spent some quality
time with the girlfriend.

CUT TO:

INT. BEDROOM - DAY

Matt's GIRLFRIEND is crying.

MATT
What? Your ass does look fat...
I'm not going to lie.

CUT TO:

INT. BEDROOM - LATER

GIRLFRIEND
My mother was right: you're
nothing but a failure!

MATT
YOUR MOTHER IS A WHORE!

CUT TO:

INT. BEDROOM - LATER

Matt has a black eye. He's carrying a CARDBOARD BOX labeled "MY STUFF"

MATT
Well, I gathered everything I own,
been nice dating you.

HIS GIRLFRIEND IS DEAD...

lying next to a bunch of pills...

MATT (CONT'D)
Oh great, now you're dead.

CUT TO:

INT. APARTMENT - DAY

IAN
What about you, Franci?

FRANCI
Oh, you know...nothing much.

CUT TO:

INT. BEDROOM - DAY
Franci is looking into the mirror...crying.

FRANCI
I HATE YOU SO MUCH.

She TAKES A SWIG OF BOOZE and begins to move towards kissing her REFLECTION.

CUT TO:

INT. APARTMENT

They all look at each other and HUG.

Suggestions For Social Networking Relationship Status:

1) It's Not Actually Complicated, I Just Barely Like You Enough To Have Sex With
2) In A Sham Relationship With
3) Single, But Masturbating a Shitload
4) Slowly Dying Inside With
5) Not Putting A Status, Because My Girlfriend Is Too Ugly To Let People Know About Her
6) Having Sex With Minority From Work To Get Back At My Parents
7) Having Sex, But Praying It Remains No-Strings-Attached With

Vegas Hotel Rooms

Currently in a not-as-nice-as-I'm-used-to hotel. Nothing "wrong" with it per se, but the scrambled egg colored walls and able-to-watch-myself-having-sex-with-a-prostitute mirrors behind the bed really call the quality of the place into question.

You ever stare at your hotel remote control and think to yourself "gee, I wonder how many people ordered porn with it, then masturbated in its immediate vicinity?" Do the cleaning ladies wash the remote? I think not!

So, basically, while flipping the channels looking for something funny to ease the unending loneliness of a hotel room, I'm actually jacking some dude off. Good times!

Whatever stays in Vegas, right? For many, that includes drug benders, truculent sex with various anonymous partners, winning/losing several months salary while wearing nothing but a rainbow suspenders and a sock. For me, it's long periods of reading interrupted by spastic crying fits.

NICE!

Anal Porn

INT. IAN'S ROOM - DAY
Ian sits in his bed, reading "Modern Bride" magazine.

Josh comes in, acting suspiciously nonchalant.

JOSH
Good afternoon, Ian!

IAN
(not again)
Afternoon, Josh.

JOSH
Wondering if I could...

IAN
...borrow some things?

JOSH
That would be perfect. Let's see...

He goes through some of Ian's things.

JOSH (CONT'D)
This Economist from February of 2006. Boy those
mid-term elections sure are sneaking up on us fast.

More stuff.

JOSH (CONT'D)
These Groucho Marx glasses: Well, the social calendar
is really lighting up these days; never know when
comedic eyewear might tickle a funny bone or two.

He gets a SERIOUS look in his eyes and runs over to Ian's SOCK DRAWER.

HE tosses ALL OF THE SOCKS OUT OF HIS DRAWER and pulls out a DVD:

"ANAL SLUTS 45".

JOSH (CONT'D)
What's this? Anal Sluts 45?

IAN
Yup.

JOSH
Is this a "pornographic" movie?

He examines the DVD.

JOSH (CONT'D)
More gape then all other Anal Slut videos combined?
Oh my; That's a lot of gape, isn't it?

IAN
Yes, it's the most gape legally
allowed in the United States.

JOSH
Wow! Really? That's intriguing!

He smirks and shakes his head, in a faux gesture of nationalism.

Only in America!

Ian smiles and nods faintly.

JOSH (CONT'D)
You know, I don't think I can fit all of these
things in my hands. I guess I'll just put back
The Economist from February, 2006.

He puts it away.

JOSH (CONT'D)
Oh, and let's see...I guess the Groucho glasses.
Maybe I'll also grab this giant container of
hand cream as well; you never know when
you need moisturizing!

IAN
Sounds about right.

JOSH
Gee, you know, I'm so intrigued by this sexual
documentary that I'm going to pop it into my computer
right this instant! Is it alright if I leave the door open?
Watch it without headphones?

IAN
That's terrific.

JOSH
Great! See you in 3 minutes!

He runs out.

Ian pulls a bottle of WHISKEY from under his pillow and takes a swig.

Arab Girls Go Jihad on Jewish Cocks!

Note to LimeWire: I searched for "Chicks on Speed", so why, prey tell did "Arab Girls Go Jihad On Jewish Cocks" come up? Also, what's going "Jihad" on that particular part of the male anatomy mean? Does she attach a bomb to her vagina? Is there such a thing as a "sexy Jihad" or is that extremely tasteless, like Denny's?

Speaking of Denny's, I recently (via social network website #52523) got in contact with an old high school buddy of mine, I'll call him Rich. Rich (a pudgy, nerdy-Jew type) was the kind of guy you could sit with watching TV, shooting the shit, or confide in. He really was a great friend. I was a grade ahead of him, and I noticed towards the end of my senior year he began to drink. Not like, "Oh, hey, I'm going to sip this Bud Light and act silly" drink; like, "I'm going to down these two bottles of wine in ten minutes, pop a bunch of pain killers and fall down a flight of stairs" drink.

Rich had never drank or done drugs before, so it concerned me that I wouldn't be around for his senior year to keep him in check. I pulled him aside the day I graduated and had a talk with him.

"Rich, don't smoke pot and cut down the drinking...it's just going to get you crazy"
"Definitely, man"

Needless to say, I returned the next year to visit, and he:

1) Put glue in his hair often (he didn't like gelling it every day, and it made the points stick up higher)
2) Had various things cut into his arm (names, random words, little teardrops)
3) Had lost about 30 pounds.

I checked in with him and asked him what happened:

"Well, man, you told me not to smoke pot, so I skipped straight to cocaine".

Ahh, I thought...very didactic. At least he's a good listener.

Anyway, he became this very strange creature: when I was in school with him, we'd spend our nights watching movies, playing video games and generally joking around. When I hung out with him this time, we sat around doing literally nothing until he insisted on going to Denny's at 5am.

"Really, you want to go to Denny's at 5am?"
He was pacing back at forth...
"Yes. I can't stay inside! GOTTA GO TO DENNY'S!"

Denny's Customer=Cokehead, I s'pose...

So, we went to a Denny's in central New Jersey at 5am. Admittingly, I was a Denny's virgin: and trapped in this Fellini-esque nightmare, I didn't order anything. Rich had 7 cups of coffee and some yellowish globs kindly referred to as "eggs".

When we left, he immediately vomited. I asked him if he was OK, and he told me that Denny's always made him vomit. Why keep going back? I asked. He didn't respond.

Anyway, I saw him once more in 2001; he was wearing a studded dog collar, had blue hair and smelled like he hadn't showered in several months. I asked him to remove the dog collar when my mom was around (he was spending the night at my mom's house) and he seemed really annoyed by that. He stayed up until 9am and didn't wake up until 5pm the next day. My mother thought he had died.

So, I haven't seen him in 7 years. Not sure what he's up to, but I'm supposed to visit him this month. Strangely enough, I am looking forward to it. I haven't eaten Denny's since, but perhaps it's time...

Tim Russert

Just a quick thought about Tim Russert.

I watch "Meet The Press" every Sunday. I find most political coverage (both network and ...yes, believe it or not, the blogosphere) filled with the inane partisan rants of narcissistic, power-hungry nincompoops who know nothing more about politics than you or I. Tim Russert was different.

He grilled both Democrats and Republicans furiously without seeming ideological in the least. During boringly asinine partisan panel discussions, Russert frequently calmed things. He kept his neutrality while pointing out contradictions from both sides; his strength was his ability to cut through absurd rhetoric and get to the heart of an issue. He knew what the truth was and strived to get the politicos to admit it.

He added wit, humor and a big smile to the political discussion and I will personally miss him and what he represented, journalistically: he was a reporter, not a talking head.

Here he is in one of his better moments, showcasing his ability to cut right through the bullshit:



Tim Russert, dead today at 58.

Dream Journal

Wednesday, January 11th:

Suddenly I am in Germany, 1942 wearing a yellow badge on my shirt. I am entirely surprised to find that it's not shaped like a star, but rather a bagel. Three SS officers grab me and drag me away.

They bring me to a dungeon-type basement; looking around, I notice a sign on the wall, which reads:

GESTAPO: BAGEL AND PASTRY DIVISION.

A grizzled Nazi with a long scar down the right side of his face comes in. His name is Herr Otto Klonkinhoffer.

Klonkinhoffer: Tell me where the cream cheese is.
Me (coy): What's cream cheese?
Klonkinhoffer: Tell me where the cream cheese is or your chocolate monkey gets it!
Me: Not Puddles!

He pushes a button and a curtain pulls back, revealing my Chocolate Monkey; blindfolded and shackled.

Puddles: Tell them nothing! Viva La Revolución!

Klonkinhoffer scoffs.

Klonkinhoffer: Tell me!

He pulls out a large glass of milk and a knife...covered in nougat.

Me: I...I don't know where the cream cheese is.
Klonkinhoffer: You can play coy with me, Mr. Manson, but remember, your chocolate monkey won't be the first dessert animal that I have eaten.

He points over to a rotting, half-eaten flan Zebra, chained to the wall.

Zebra: Kill...me...

Me: OK, OK...You'll find what you're looking for in the fridge!
Klonkinhoffer: Doesn't it feel good to be honest?

He looks over at his guards.

Klonkinhoffer: Eat the monkey.
Me: You promised, Klonkinhoffer!
Klonkinhoffer: My fingers were crossed.

He shows me his fingers, which somehow are curved into a Swastika.

Klonkinhoffer walks over to his fridge...

Klonkinhoffer: Finally, the last piece of the puzzle...

and opens it up....

Inside there's nothing but Vegan Cream Cheese.

Klonkinhoffer: Vegan? Are you kidding me? Hitler's gonna shvitz! I guess it'll have to do.

He pulls out a bagel and begins to spread it.

Klonkinhoffer: Hitler better like this.

15 minutes later Klonkinhoffer and his guards are hung for treason because Hitler thinks Vegan cream cheese is "not Aryan enough".

This gives rise to the great German-Vegan revolt of 1943, where 10,000 pale, thin hipsters with Star and Asian lettering Tattoos are massacred. They say that it's the beginning of the end for the great German empire and I am glad to be the man who started it all. I am also glad to be responsible for the death of so many Vegan-types.


Friday, October 16th:

I woke up in a cold sweat at 4am. Then I woke up in a cold sweat at 4am. Then I woke up in a cold sweat at 4am.

Then I woke up in a cold sweat at 4am with 12 voluptuous Nordic-types in bed, serving me chilled mojitos and discussing philosophy and the collected works of the Marx brothers. One of them knew David Bowie's oeuvre by heart and began to sing "Sound and Vision" with a sweet angelic voice, while the others engaged me in a long, drawn out chess game, which I won.

Later on, they stripped to their underwear and teased me until I told them politely that "I'm not that sort of guy". We watched the BBC sitcom "Peep Show" and ate scrumptious poached eggs and drank sweetly-mild freshly brewed coffee.

When I woke up at 9am, I realized that I might have some issues about sex.

Dr. Who Rick Rolled Me

By the way...if you haven't seen this episode...go out and do it. I'm considering hopping on the next plane to see my dad because of it...

BUH?

I guess I need to stop drinking...I mean, my routine of blacking out every night and waking up in a puddle of my own tears while stroking the nubile carcass of a prostitute is perfectly acceptable...but shitty writing is NOT.

Last Wednesday night I went to Las Vegas for work. My cameraman Ian and I decided to take a "load off" and have a few drinks at the local grogshop. This, of course, led to hours of discussion about philosophy, childhoods and the invariable blabbings of career and life goals. At some point after my 5th vodka martini, I got massively drunk.

I remember coming back to the hotel, saying goodnight to Ian, writing a few emails and going to sleep. Actually, the emails I sent (when I read them the next morning) were probably MORE coherent then I would normally compose. But, just now, while looking over my unpublished bloggings, I stumbled upon this; written at 3:45am that night:

i have a long, didactically boring explination as to whether or not a higher power exists. I have no idea if it's true. In fact, there are only a few thingsthat are consitantly funny.
ogcoutsr, this dude, got out and chasre

First thought is that I spelled didactically correct yet managed to misspell consistently ("consitantly" sounds like a coincidence that happened by accident)...second thought is what the hell was I going on about?

ogcoutsr, this dude, got out and chasre? Is ogcoutsr the name of the dude or a Dr Who Villan? Chasre? is that an olde English way of saying "chaser"? In my drunken state, did I manage to channel a dead language?

Do I really have a didactically boring "explination" as to whether or not a higher power exists, or is my answer "I really have no idea"? And what does that have to do with a lack of consistently funny things? Would I have a stronger Theological position if "Two and a Half Men" was a riot?

Also, the phrase "didactically boring "explination" as to whether or not a higher power exists" makes me sound like a first year film student who's just read Sarte for the first time.

I now feel the need study Buddhism, cry while watching "Fight Club" and blast Radiohead as loud as I possibly can. (I am describing someone...but that person is a very nice, talented person).

First rule of Fight Club...don't get drunk and blog.

My Application To Open Up a Deli

Dear Community Board 6,

This letter is to apply for a food and liquor license at 40523 Melrose Avenue in West Hollywood. We plan to open a deli-restaurant named "Jewsies" and serve big, delicious sandwiches, kosher wines and pastries. The location will not be secretly used to house middle-eastern sex-slaves.

Since we are near to so many nightclubs and bars, we believe it's important to stay open until 4am. We will adhere to all relevant noise pollution laws and have security to make sure that the community is kept safe. We will not, however, have a secret room where horny loners can pay a cross-eyed hooker named Shameer 10 dollars to give them hand relief.

The plans have been drawn up to have enough seating for 100 patrons. We would like to have outdoor space set aside to accommodate another 25. This is feasible because the sidewalk has a width of 12 feet, so with 6 feet of tables and chairs, there is more than enough room for pedestrians to pass by without disturbing community standards. Our location is large enough to house 125 people comfortably without being a fire hazard. In fact, there is enough additional room to fit 50 more people in our secret underground dungeon (provided they slept on the damp, cold floor), just to be safe.

We hope you consider our application and appreciate that "Jewsies" will be the perfect, family-friendly dining experience that our community needs. If you'd like to come by to check it out, please knock three times on the back entrance and say "swordwish" to our caretaker Mr. Saliva. He will show you around and not allow you to have free sex with our non-existent underage slaves.

I wanna be fed

Don't you miss being fed? I don't mean like "open up for the airplane!" kinda being fed, but that wonderful time of life when you woke up to a fresh scrumptious breakfast, went to school with a delicious brown paper bag lunch of goodness, and came home to a heartfelt dinner of yumminess.

I know, I know, "Matt be a man", "Matt, you're old enough to feed yourself", "Matt stop staring at my breasts". Well, I CAN'T, OK? I'M HUMAN!

This foodly reverie was a result of walking past a vending machine today. Not particularly hungry, yet extremely bored, I ordered a big bunch of sugar wafers. Delicious, yes; but I thought "gee, I wish I wasn't doing this!". Cue Sadness.

I fancied a time when I had my brown paper lunch bag with "MATT :)" written on it. Sure, those lunches were usually PB&J, celery sticks and apple juice, but at least I didn't have to have self-control. Lunch might have sucked, but that's all I got and I learned to enjoy it. Now, I'm all cookie binges, chocolate benders and glasses of fresh tears with a lime.

Talking about this reminds me of one time my father got into a lot of trouble when he made me lunch. Recently divorced, dad (never a gourmand) would usually prepare me left-over Chinese food, burnt toast or a yellow post it note with "lunch" written in sharpe.

Well, one time while making me lunch for school, he ran out of juice boxes. What did he do? Pour me some water? Nope. Give me some money to buy something at school? Nope.

He packed me some Bloody Mary Mix. When I pulled it out of my lunch bag, I was called into the principal's office and my mother was immediately contacted. They didn't arrest my dad, but a nine-year-old pulling out a bottle that reads "Just Add Alcohol!" must have given the teachers a pause for thought.

I suppose then, I still indulge in my childhood packed lunches...I love ordering Chinese food, I burn toast all the time and I'm a borderline alcoholic. Wish I took after my mom a little more...

Supporting McCain over Obama?

A lot of polls suggest that a significant amount of Clinton supporters will vote for McCain or not vote at all, because Obama won the nomination.

Just a thought; Clinton supporters are some of the most ardent feminists out there. They are severely disappointed because they feel like sexism caused Clinton's downfall (no comment on that theory). So, why on earth would these people want to support a McCain victory when he says this on his website:

"Overturning Roe v. Wade

John McCain believes Roe v. Wade is a flawed decision that must be overturned, and as president he will nominate judges who understand that courts should not be in the business of legislating from the bench.

Constitutional balance would be restored by the reversal of Roe v. Wade, returning the abortion question to the individual states. The difficult issue of abortion should not be decided by judicial fiat.
...

 As John McCain has publicly noted, "At its core, abortion is a human tragedy. To effect meaningful change, we must engage the debate at a human level." "

Uhh...so yeah...good luck with that, my lovely feminist.

Letter to 3:20 in the Morning

Dear 3:20am,

We need to talk. It's not you, it's me. We've been drifting apart.

I know we've had some really good times together: downloading pornography over the internet, watching British sitcoms on DVD, questioning whether or not I can bare to live the rest of my life without committing suicide; but I think it's time we "take a break".

It might not be permanent; who knows? Let's just tell our friends that we needed some "time apart". Maybe down the line, I'll go out to a party, stay out really late, and BAM! We'll see each other again. It's possible, right?

OK, I'll put all my cards on the table. I've been seeing someone else. 10am. Do you know her? She's a lot brighter than you, I feel much more alive with her, and frankly, I can still download porn anyway.

Don't you think we should be exploring our options? I'm still young and we've been seeing each other since I was a teenager. I mean, we were together pretty much every night in college...in fact, we were only apart when I was working those crazy hours on film shoots. You even followed me to Los Angeles. STOP STIFLING ME, YOU BITCH!

OK, I'll be even more honest. I never really had feelings for you: I only saw you because I'm an insomniac. The truth hurts, doesn't it? You know what else hurts? BEING WITH YOU ON A DAILY BASIS. YOU ARE DESTROYING MY SOUL, YOU WRETCHED HARPE!

I will look back on our time together with a fond reminiscence, but it's time we moved on. It'll be easier for you...trust me! There are plenty of other people looking for a time like you; sickly old people, lonely transients, the unemployable.

Good luck, and please don't respond. It'll be better for both of us.

Nakedly Fond,

~Matt.

Letter To People Who See Me and My Brother On the Street

Dear Strange Gentleman,

No, my brother and I are not twins. Thanks for asking. What, you want to mention that we look alike? Gee thanks. Wait, you want to continue talking about this? OK, sure, whatever you want. I certainly have nowhere better to go.

A-ha-ha. Yes. Uh huh. You definitely needed to stop and talk to us about this outside the San Fransisco Museum of Art. What? You aren't going in? You're just passing by? Where might you be going? A mental hospital? A desolate island where they put people who walk up to strangers and say "hey, are you guys twins?". Oh, you're going home. Well, that's too bad. I hope you die a painful death by rectal plunger insertion.

You're very welcome.

Love,

Matt.


Dear Middle-Aged Businessman,

Yes, in fact we do look alike; at least this is what we've heard. Sure, it's OK that you've stopped us in the middle of a crosswalk. No problem that the light is flashing "don't walk"...that's only a suggestion.

It IS hysterical how much we look alike. In fact, if you hadn't had pointed it out, then laughed for a good 5 seconds, I probably wouldn't have seen the hilarity of the situation. Now that you've mentioned it...pure comedy.

You could have SWORN we're twins? Well, that's fabulous! You have a terrific day too. Please die soon!

Sexily Yours,

Matt.

10 minute blog

Letter to my Father:
Dear Dad,

Seriously? You're a smart, handsome, physically strong, successful businessman with an astute understanding of high finance and a law degree. Why on earth did I only inherit your bad back and impatience with mindless conversation?

Sure, I could be running several successful businesses like you did, but hey, this whole "I can't stand small talk and OY! my back hurts" vibe is OK too.

Yeah, it's cool that you could bench press 300lbs when you were my age. But seriously, do I have to sweat when I eat?

Why take my sail boat out for a spin on an exclusive picturesque lake like you do on a weekly basis when I can be at a party, looking uncomfortable because the girl that's talking to me is really really boring? SHE'S PRETTY DAD!!! WHY DID YOU CURSE ME WITH A DISTASTE FOR THE MUNDANE???

Letter to my Mother:Dear Mom,

You sure are the best mom that a sonny could ask for; Caring, intellegent, selfless, and extremely pretty to boot. My question: Why did I only inherit your abilities to talk on and on about nothing and misplace common household items?

Sure, I could have articles written and videos made about my continuing efforts to help those who are mentally or terminally ill, but who wants that when I'm blabbering on about my missing socks with the last friend that can still bare to spend time with me?

Totally fine that I'm not a photographer's model like you were...but do I really have to be the guy who loses his keys every time he has to leave the house in a hurry? Where could I have got that from?...oh right, you.


Note: I love both my parents dearly and I know I've got some good things going on for myself. But seriously? I couldn't have inherited their better traits?

My First Love Letter: 3.22.04

Dearest Martha,

Your toes are like two dainty flowers; pickable, yet easily pollinated. Your other eight toes are alright, but not dainty...more like eight drying flowers that once had life, but are now slowly dying; much like my soul and this relationship.


Remember our time in Paris? No woman ever washed my socks like you. I shall always recall our conversation about God at the local brasserie: you insisting that there is an Almighty who controls our morality and me undressing the waitress with my eyes. Oh, will we ever enjoy kasha varnishkes like that again?


Making love to you is the most joyous experience of my life. The way you just lie there reading Faust, never orgasming, makes masturbation seem like a grotesque misadventure.


When I dream, I see your lovely incandescent face and the blue limpid pools that are your eyes. Sure, those eyes are crying because I forgot to put the toilet seat down and you fell into the vicious swamp that is our toilet bowl, but that's OK: WE LOVE EACH OTHER!


Foreverly yours,
Matt.


Postscript: I woke up the next morning to Martha setting my hair on fire, cutting Swastikas into her arm while reading from the Bible. We broke up six months later when I found out her name wasn't really Martha and she murdered transients that she picked up by the side of the road. Ahh, true love!