Sundays

Sundays at the pho joint is crazy with local Vietnamese. The vibrance and chattering din of the families, friends and the lovers fills this vast room, nearly bursting the big windows.

Rarely is there a better way a Sunday could be spent.

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She takes your face in her hands and attempts to bite your flesh like a starving carnivore and all you can think of is how these marks are going to look in the morning.

Bruises from beatings that demand equal pleasure measure are only visible by rifling through the blur of the blackout from the night before.

Your flask is drawing dry and the mileage of this moment is stretching so far into the night that dawn is hunting you down like wild game.

The length of her desire is unmatched by any natural animal and the strength in the fishhook of her grasp is more than just words.

More than just spilled blood or undergarments torn down the southern swath of wild legs, these forbidden, fleeting seconds permeated with impropriety define all things terrible and assure that sometimes terror can be perfectly beautiful.

Woof

Accord. Acknowledgment. Commitment. Cohabitation. Love. Diggity dog.

Looking around this den of old charm, antiquities and queries, this apartment of weird furniture and hanging frames, it seems that this place just may need a woman’s touch.

Welcome, new dog. New female dog. New 1-year-old little child of a dog, a sweet, big eyed, sleek lover, licker and nuzzler, this beautiful new animal into my home.

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Aww, poor baby, the clouds cover the blue sky you know is back there, the rain is swooping in with a blanket of cold drizzle and wind, the window panes are drafty and the streets are wet and slick with leaves, and the depression hits with the heavy hand of dark autumn and all you can think about is holing up in the house and declaring war on the world. Waving the white flag, is more like it, wouldn’t you say?

I’m unsure what MAO inhibitors are or what an SSRI is (they sound strange and dangerous, like weapons or motorcycles), and I have never taken psychotropic or psychiatric drugs on any sort of rigid schedule. Schedule III, however, I may have smashed through my body once or twice on occasion on a purely experimental or recreational pursuit.

I am seriously considering lying on a couch and confessing how the rain makes me unable to perform simple tasks like trimming my nails or getting out of bed. Because something inside me often tells me not to move too quickly as to not wake the monsters in my soul that enjoy emerging just when my strength wanes. Deep seeded dirty spirits whose cagey and unrelenting chatter turns my confidence into mashed potatoes and douses my fiery desire to create and forge love into a withered, Charlie Brown Christmas tree of forgettable worthlessness. They haunt my dreams and make sleep a terrible venture each and every night.

So Doc…the weather’s got me down. How’s about some magic beans? Seriously. These mad mood swings are damning me to chocolate gorging meltdowns and no amount of alcohol in my cabinet will restrain this evil, enveloping animal for long.