Her beauty only corrected the formality of my error. She is the mistress of such little virtue but she cannot escape my mind’s bars. She holds the key to my happiness and I know it will take a pretty penny to get it back from the clutches of such a skirt. Some see my sadness as the source of the so such hunger I have accumulated from seasons past of, nor love, nor happy, nor smiles, the freckled complexion only being broken by a pretty eye. Not even this has brang upon one of those half moon features to this noogle. It all happened not so long ago, in the nearest present past of futures, so let me begin, otherwise the terrible monster of hatred and old age will seize me and I will never get to telling this story.
She stood there at my doorway, looking ever so cool but who wants to be cool for a corporate boxing bag? She does. She stood and I stared. That was a moment of such a pure essence with no muffled sobs into a pillow but of just a half moon to one’s noogle.
I saw her many times that day. It was a day of discovery. I was an explorer. She was too. I listened to a shot of slow, depressing indie/alternate. This makes the half moon flip but makes my soul feel a shot of warm. She made my night. She made an old fool seem a millionaire. But I am not one to demand the presents. I stand and I stand strong but I do not stand a petite, brunette, creative type. I stand an average, black/blonde/pink/orange, introvert. Not an introvert but one till your noogle and bones, gets to know this noogle and bones. I am the kind to muffle ones sobs. I am the kind to hold my honesty on the outside and truth, inside. I am the kind to wish I had a noogle of such strange beauty. But this does not matter because I should not write about the writer, I should write about the incident. Slash incidents. Slash feelings of such melancholy and despair.
I don’t know about her feelings but I do know about my feelings.
This is how I am currently feeling:
That is my noogle.
My insides feel worse.
They feel under imense disapproval of my heart and its hollow wants.
I am ignoramus. I should not want such things. She wants me too. But my noogle and heart have called this yet again open season so I will continue on this journey until a noogle and bones with a sorrowful heart and a half moon feature, either flipped or normal, turns upon my feet with such beauty, I cannot recall all the ones that made me feel a little more hollow, as if I am the grave with not a body inside.
My response to a Clockwork Orange and being in love.