westid

once upon an often time, the hostess comes to show me off to hers, as it irritates her right in the ephemera … that i don’t make her into something that’s mine. it’s not that i don’t appreciate such effort she takes, it entertains me all the time. and if only she could admit some things to herself, we would probably have one hell of a time. it’s the mystery that keeps pulling her in, she doesn’t know. it’s the indifference that keeps pulling her away, they don’t want her to show. if i could only give her something that her ephemera would feel so consistent, then she would grow. the only annoying thing about reaching those dizzy new heights, i would be the only one she couldn’t look down upon below – i would still let her pretend to, if she wanted me to get down or something, though

it’s well easy to walk down and hang around an unknown element, and sit beside where i probably am right now and that. tell now calling number 728 who i am, and that oh heck no i’m such a twat. she stole someone else’s format, because she saw how well it was doing – just hanging around outside my gaff, and then go into the flora and fauna what’s nearby – to the totally-by-chance where we ended up at. once upon a time i used to see the guy who i think probably lives in that flat – just who the hell does he think he is with his grim reaper and his wooden [cctv?] cat!? maybe drip drip a little jealousy if you’ve bagged a mr. tryhard with a vengeance, so things are a little more clitoral as far as our bedroom sojourn’s concerned. did you know he chilled with *feelings down below of extinguished surges sexual confusion but somehow still lingers …* where we were living at? the fucking twat!

not bitter about it are we? little details like that? 🙂

so the hostess, she loves to come and show me off from time to time but can’t fit her ego through the shut blinds in the window of my flat. maybe another iteration of the story that by now she’s heard over a hundred times about how i came to gift my fame to the window ledge, where sits the god damn wooden cat. i wonder what she could say or do about me to make them pay more attention to me, or even pay attention to what she’s saying at all? while i’m sort of flattered by the hostess’ attention, it’s not every day someone uses another person just to show me that they might be heterosexual. if i could wish for one thing different, maybe i would get rid of that feeling she has in her tummy that no matter how hard she tries, everything would be completely different if it were me she was actually talking to and not gimp #98 who you can pretend is a good listener because you’re predictable enough for a quick yes or no answer, completely vacant between the ears, but in the very least – as though it actually matters – at least you’re a bit tall

while i’d love to be the charming, sensitive, envy invoking gentle like talking to a brick wall, it’s not like this would ever lead to i dunno say … dialling my number and making a call? maybe something will feel different if you feel yourself actually going to fall. and you land where you fall, and that’s the only way you’re ever going to know me if you want to stop pretending and start to find out for yourself and truly – not just pretend – go round with your head up so high, as though you actually do know it all

something to think about, hostess. come to crawl xoxo