Falling Down, Falling Up, Falling All Around

So I write out and then I quit writing. And words start to bank like spilling snow drifts, and they bank, and they bank.

I've got an almighty surplus of words jangling in my head, at some point last week I think the words "orgy" and "porgy" were having a lively game of dice in the T....

FUCK ME FUCK ME FUCK ME

I just accidentally deleted my thoughts, fuck me, I think I am going to cry. FUCK, FUCK, FUCK, FUCKFUCKEITYFUCKFUCKFUCK

no, really, I mean it.

words, thoughts, they just bank into helpless drifts, uniformly white, uniformly smudged, no virgins here.

A lot and nothing can happen in a week, you may end up with a new nick name - that would be Short Bus, that your high school posse rechristened you, you may or may have not been pulled over by the police, you might have spent four sober nights, you might have slept alone only to wake under a vast nylon leaf and think that you are Thumbelina, you might have realized as you flying up the mountain at 85 miles per hour that rental cars are fun to thrash, and you might have noticed just how blinding the sun is at 8,000 feet. You may have stretched the cosmo's just a tetch, you may have been roundly praised for your industriousness, and in the same hung over breath, roundly excoriated for your industriousness. This may or not be a form of revenge for being newly christened "Short Bus" amongst your highschool girl posse. Oh yeah, bless their hearts, I got them good.

and tonight bid farewell to French Toast, he leaves tomorrow for the Froglands.

Et alors mon tres cher Toast, now is as good a time as any to say several things that I ought to have said a long time ago, though it is likely that you will never read this and it is likely that when the plane whisks you off to Paris tomorrow, you and I will not see one another again.

But should Chance be feeling fickle, and should Chance steer your gaze here, weeks and months hence, I should like you to know that I regret that you were not home tonight, or any night that the bus passed underneith your window these past two weeks since you said that you were leaving. I should have tried harder to ring your bell, this one last time.

And I would like to surrender my thanks. Sweet man. I see that there was a coup in there for you, but there were bars to be danced upon, there was love to be made, there was wine to be drunk and there was a ledge in there somewhere that I tumbled off of and then eeded saving. And there you were, 23 to my 29, in the back of my black car.

You might have really loved me, but I was to hopelessly damaged to care. But that was several years ago and there have been other lovers and other loves and even a divorce. It's time for you to go home now, and you are passing out of my life. But so you know, French Toast, for whatever my nearly thirty-fucked-up-self could have given, I did love you by moments, and I am grateful for the night before we went into Bimbo's afterhours and the happy mess began. I thank you for your kindness, je te souhaite que de bonheur mon tres cher ami.

I am supposing that I will see you, along with all of my other loves discarded on sidewalks, or been discarded by, on the sidewalks in heaven. And at some point all of us will tumble onto lawns that are not our own for a midday romp, and in heaven no one needs to draw the blinds, because there is no shame.