"Dear Lover...

...give me one last painful kiss."

I sat in my room all night last night, mulling things over.  Finding myself fixated on the last couple of weeks and how right before my life went pear shaped I had prayed to St. Francis de Sales for words.

Well there you go.

I lose a job, I lose a girl, I lose my mind a little bit.  And then just solider on.  I have my words now, and I wonder if that is all that I was looking for in the first place.  I like to think that isn't true.  But a part of me wonders if I just involve myself in things to get a new plot line.  To get a new story to share over a pint on in an article.

Who knows?

All I can say is that I'm the kind of selfish prick that will just move on, at least on the outside, and pretend like nothing is effecting him.  While internally I'm still stewing over everything.  So I just sit down and write it all out, over and over again.  And I find myself coming back to that moment over and over again.  And though I want to be over and done with relationships, I know that I'm going to just throw myself at them over and over until one sticks.  Because I need something to drive me, especially with this.  Especially with these words.

I need the communion of these things to keep my clicking keyboard fed.

Does that make me a bastard?  Yes.

Do I always care? No, but sometimes even I get to myself.  Even I irritate myself.

St. Francis de Sales.

Give Me Words.

Maybe less contentious words.

And maybe someone to keep me warm at night, but that may be asking to much.

File under Vice.