somehow it never quite unrumples in an easy "now the bed is made" flick of the wrist. always crawling over the mattress fidgeting with the corners of the coverlet, knees dropping like meteorites leaving craters in the smooth fabric. chasing around after myself tidying up the rabble left behind my first pass. my life is one big unkemp bed. usually i'm alright with that. it's mine and i keep it the way i find it comfortable. but why on earth do people have to push me out of the way, peel down their sweaty little panties and piss me a river. as if living in a house of lunacy and death riddled dog feces isn't enough of an adventure in stamina. what really nips at the tip of my shrivled little clit, though, is the attitude that creativity can be climbed on into. strapped on like a big bulbous cock, apple on a log, and along with it all the wisdom and grace. nearly fucking your english teacher in highschool does not make you a writer. listening intently to people describe the ecstacy found in vulnerability does not make you a martyre. un-empathetic voyerism is disgusting. to bleed one must first take the time to find the goddamn vein. at the very least, i tamed the beast...if only for a time.