If I Had Wanted Your Help I Would Have Asked For It

It took me forever to send the email to the schmigguy even though it was so easy.

Time gets stuck around our mind stones. Our bodies are held in place by the weight we place upon them.

I turn my chair and place a tv in front of it.

“I can take control…” I say, setting up my Patreon.

“You crazy motherfucker.”

“Don’t spit that shit at me.”

Snap out of it. It was the giving tree what gave us up.

Shut it.

Keep up with the narrative. Gotta stay current. Gotta cut through the audience and touch that thing inside of them that they’ve come to you for, Doctor Douche.

We don’t need your guilt, only your confession. Simple way forward, stating pardon as the gastrointestinal specialist.

Musette calls. I tell her to text me when she is getting on the train. She forgets, so I have to guess when to leave.

I meet her at the subway. She complains about me not having the schmig but understands that this is how it should be.

We watch the new Rhianna video and then she wants to play, but I don’t know how to play. I am too big.

After staring awkwardly at each other, we talk and tickle, rolling and laughing. There is no data, just our eyes on each other.

She asks if I will take her to work tomorrow. I tell her that I will, but come next morning she doesn’t care.