Mac-ed Out

The purity in dreaming
The mean time as a quarantine
Suppose there is no difference
And phone sex is eternal love

Inner Dj is spinning Amos Tobin’s “Bricolage”. I have more blah in my system today than on most other days and I still can’t Ms-Word it coz I am just spaced out. I can finally afford the MacBook without having to sell my internal organs to a shady French man with a distinctly Cockney accent(don’t ask bout THAT story) and if someone actually decides to pay me generously for sex then maybe even a MacBook Pro (Mr Cockney French again, perhaps). 

Hmmf.

Who needs a man when the iMac demo leaves you orgasming anyway?

In the meantime, I was reminded of something tremendously nasty you wrote to me and I can now actually laught at You and Your delinquency. I remember, not with sophomoric nostalgia, everything You ever said to me. And though no light shining on me, helium or otherwise(if you are a LiveEarth sorta person and I am) I can now trace the footprints of impending deception right down to the first handshake. And it only makes me feel a little stupid and unprepared in this life. Nomore the pangs of regret. There shouldn’t be any communication now or ever. Not coz You don’t want it, coz I don’t need it. I used to rush-text You when I woke up to a cloud family or blooming magnolias coz I wanted to share the beauty of it all with You, now, You just induce a “what a colossal cafone!” vibe.

Weird!

p.s. – Yes, Italian lessons have been successful. I can now curse better!

Our dreams in holding patters
And the mean time is a quarantine
And i’m the one comparing
My having you tonight

And you’ll never found out if this one’s love
Caressing some other lover
And you’ll never found out if this one’s love
So take my heart in the mean time

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~ by iconoplastic on August 21, 2007.

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