I DO want sophisticated love letters and even the simplest notes ’cause in all honesty, I’d be a hypochrite not to admit it.
I believe in John Finch, Eric Shaw, Sophie Polansky and all the modern poets that travel through my very veins.
I believe in manners, good shoes, good speech, champagne for breakfast, love in the afternoon and good old fashioned honesty.
I don’t buy bad breath, bad practice or seven missing years from mama’s lap.
I believe love can happen in the most socially uncomfortable places. Like airports, hotels, train stations or boring workshops.
I also believe great intercourse can happen in art galleries, moving trains, fitting rooms and beds.
I believe in breakfast in bed, small talk, good TV shows, shoes in sheets, vanilla ice cream, trains and lust.
I don’t believe in photographers.
I just don’t appreciate it when you inflate your persona and deliberately shove it in my face.
I’m gonna get more offended if you laugh at gay people than if you laugh at me. No gender classified theories shall be subject to any debate at our table.
I”ll also probably laugh at your face AND leave if you once more sample that mature all weird/pretend/wannabe talent show. I’m just saying.
I want a Valentine who says “In my dreams I kiss your cunt, your sweet wet cunt. In my dreams I make love to you all day long”.
I’m a realist, and a hopeless romantic and a cynical rabid hearted thing.
Still, I believe in LOVE and I am looking for it and not a day will pass that I won’t think about the out-of-the-blue and all weird up and indecent and consuming, inconvenient, obnoxious circumstances that will get me to it.
This is me. No make-up, no airbrushed emotions, no heeled or dressed up way to live. Fiction free, tonight, folks.
P.S. I hope you know the lyrics to The Smiths when we meet, so we can do the elevator scene.