R.V. Scaramella Friends w/ Lemon Bars
I’m like, really? Lying in bed, I made It was too thick, too much tomato. She myself one promise. I will not go on an online date ever again. Tonight I will close both of my accounts, okay, all three of my accounts. There will be no late night wondering about whether or not Mr. Green Eyes ever messaged me back. All of my passwords must be forgotten. Why do all online dates become this? Why do I let them become this? Boring sex yields the most random thoughts. I’ve never liked the word colloquial. He never wants to wear a condom. Every time it’s an issue. How can a droplet of his sweat become so cold against my collarbone in so short of a distance? My mind kept wandering, wondering. I was trying to stay in the room, trying to focus. I kept thinking about lunch the previous day. An image of Cynthia eating that BLT kept prying its way back into my head.
has a weird way of chewing anyway. Her bottom jaw makes a full revolution, cow-like. She was confessing. While we were married my ex had hit on her. More than once. She didn’t know how to tell me. She apologized wearing a tearful expression that failed to produce tears. His lips were moving. Was he saying something that I needed to answer? No. No, he was just repeating some bedroom mantra, like he does. Next door the lawn guy edged the far side of my driveway. Could it have been oneish already? I needed my phone. Why was this taking so long? Maybe if I talked back at him he’d cum more quickly, but every phrase that I invented threatened to make me giggle. You cannot laugh when a man is on top of you and naked. That is dating rule #7, I think. He came? He laid his