any easier than this. mid-sidewalk. sewing machine speak. your hair. some jesus invention. part terror. part witness. and i don't wear my glasses. anymore. in realms of the universe when you are charm school. and i am rock paper scissors. all. day. long. this morning when i asked you if the popcorn coffee machine ate quarters until noon on sunday. and you looked at me all ham hocked and shy. i wanted to tear your face off with a chainsaw. it's not my fault you smell of coconuts and damp. or that pocket squares. let's face it. like chocolates or gratuitously painful sex. are my sunday afternoon insanities. god you. oh. you, lover. man.