If you were so lucky to share company with someone who actually wanted to have sexual relations with you during the weekend prior, please make some kind of half-ass effort to hide your grotesque love-sucking lesions, wherever they may have landed. It's bad enough on any given uneventful work hour that my brain has wandered aimlessly in unexplainable attempts to gather who would actually sleep with you, or put their mouth on you in any fashion. Scarf it, bring up a hood, wear a turtle neck, or pop that collar for yours and the sake of other people. I'd much rather believe you were cold, or thug-like, or a douche bag, or just one of those cats who can pull off a random turtle neck whenever the mood may strike. Part of me is hoping that such contusions were the result of domestic violence as opposed to any type of intimate engagement one was able to score, (or pay for). And 'Yes, your divorce is a Debbie Downer' to me too. It depresses me every time I feel as though I have subscribed to your misery. Blog it like the rest of us, right? (I'm part of the club now right? K good.)
Now, Where Was I?
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