Every day it's there, right where you need it. You pick it up and it does it's job. It's consistent, and always the same. Sometimes it jams, but you always manage to fix it. But sometimes you run out. Usually you have extras, but sometimes the spares have run out too. You know you need to drive and get some, but then you're tired. Maybe it's late at night and it's not worth it. So you forget to reload your stapler. You tell yourself you'll deal with it in the morning, but you won't want to in the morning, nor the afternoon, nor this week. You start borrowing someone else's stapler, because you're too lazy to fix yours. And eventually your stapler begins to rust. When you finally go back to your stapler, it won't work anymore. So you toss it out, and that's how love really leaves.

Im sick of soul searching poets, how they lost their art for a dollar bill.

I'm just thinking of old men with no college degrees, putting rims on your car for a dollar still.

And your art's transformed into pornography?

Why? Because they put it next to the ad for viagra?

By the way, what's wrong with pornography?

You appeal to higher emoticons?

You are too good for lust?

"Into my pussy, he thrust.

And as he went in, I adjusted.

Into me, his nut, he busted.

I orgasmed twice, but wanted a third.

With my hand, I jiggled his bird.

Then I took it in my mouth.

But things only went south.

His dick shrunk in my lips.

But I put a finger in my pussy, and moved my hips.

Came again and fell asleep."

Or are you too deep?

You want to teach the world a lesson?

Are not the dreams of some perverted man a lecture in history?

Does a pinch of desire corrupt the dish of truth?

Or does it add some spice?

But none of this matters.

You're not finding yourself.

You're complaining to me, and I don't want to hear it.

We may have lost Hemingway.

But he never told us we did.

We just kind of figured it out.

Remember, you're making a puzzle.

You need to separate the pieces.

I was with her for a year.

I fucked her, put it up her ass.

She broke up with me because of Star Wars.

And she killed herself.

Sorry, she committed suicide.

No, she fucking slit her wrists after telling me she'd do it.

No, really, sorry, have a nice day, please.

Did God give the divine spark to us?

Or us to him?

Was Jesus the son of God?

Or God the son of man?

Was the flood made by God?

Or God made by the flood?

Was the Sistine Chapel divinely inspired?

Or was the divine inspired by the Sistine Chapel?

Does the drum create the beat?

Or does the beat create the drum?

Does God cause fate?

Or does fate cause God?

Eat it.

I'm an it and it's my favorite.

Forget the drink.

Pour milk in the sink.

No need to get me dunked.

Consider traditions debunked.

An easy task when it's its favorite.

Not so easy when its owners refuse to admit they savor it.

But me? I say no.

Let me just say that I blame this all on the alcohol, also kill me, mostly kill me. Yeah, just kill me.

Anyway, I'd had a dark and stormy, and three glasses of red wine the night before. That shouldn't have knocked me out. Hell, I'm a college student, we sometimes just drink vodka when there's no water around. But it did, because I can remember having a particularly awful fuck with my girlfriend. My dick just kept going soft. I pulled out once to try and get it going, and that worked until it went back in. Unfortunately for her, a few pumps of my limp dick and I came. I rolled over and passed out.

I know, I'm actually the worst.

In the morning, I awoke by her side, my forehead about to burst, and stepped out of bed. No need to look around, I'd done this before. I'd never before questioned the reason behind light hurting my head, nor the magic of Ibuprofen. I reached the bathroom. I barely looked at the grime of the sink I had forgotten to clean for months, sunk a few pills down with a swash of a Corona I'd left on the back of the toilet the night before, and went back to lay next to my beautiful girlfriend.

"Hey, you want another go?" I asked her.

She grunted her approval, turned away, and I flipped the covers off her. She was still in nature's clothing from the night before. Her skin was oddly cold; I just assumed it was because we'd left the window open and the weather in this city makes a pretty damn good refrigerator.

So I mounted her, and for a few strokes she was rather into it, or at least she was making her usual noises. You can never really tell until she comes, and by then you two have usually been going at it for some time.

Anyway, on one stroke I go into her and then I pull out. Well, when I pulled out she started shaking. I pulled my dick away from her and asked if she was alright. She just keep writhing and bouncing on the bed, her limbs contorting. At some point I think she gained a second elbow between her original elbow and her wrist.

I didn't know what to do, so I ran out of the room, and shut the door.

As I'm writing this she is banging on it and trying to claw her way through, I'd always thought of her like a cat.

I don't know if this is sexually transmitted, whatever this is, but if you're reading this, kill me just in case. Cool? Cool.

Brendan Carr

P.S. There're jellybeans in the cupboard.

"I love you," she sent.

"I love you," I sent months later.

She kicked everyone off

The bus

On my lap her head

Dropped

We talked for hours

Till rent

Of the bus ran out

To home

We said goodbye

No kiss

"We would have been great," she said later.