Friend.
K.

Fresh Ink

FRESH INK
-In the days of internet dating services and obsolete taboos, love is the ultimate luxury item.-


Too skinny, too fat, too tall, too short, too rich, too poor, too clingy, too distant. Have you ever wondered why we've become so picky when it comes to love? The answer's simple: Like a Louise Vuitto bag sitting enticingly in a Fifth Avenue window, a relationship becomes a luxury item--it's something we want but no longer need.


In days gone by, people hooked up for a number of reasons: financial security, shelter, social acceptance, access to chickens. Love seldom factored in. These days, women make their own cash, buy their own apartments and raise their own chickens (or buy eggs at the store). Men have also become self-sufficient, well-versed in the ancient arts of cooking, cleaning and ironing. And let's not forget the big 'S' -- always a motivating factor. People got married significantly younger in the days when sex out of wedlock equalled social leprosy. Today we can pretty much do what we want--have sex without love, love without sex, instigate a relationship or be the recepient of attention. Basically, we can afford to be picky and base our relationships on seemingly inate criteria...such as footwear.

And like shopping for a pair of Jimmy Choo slingbacks, entrepreneurs have capitalized on the search for love. Now in the comfort of our own homes we can shop online, view by category and/or religous affilations. We can determine our upfront if our next potential ex is looking for a relationship, something casual, or perhaps a threesome.

It's not that we are heartless or lack moral standards but our romantic relationships have taken on a different role from previous generations. High divorce rates are not an indication of lack of commitment or hardwork. They're a reflection of options. We don't need to be in an unhappy relationship to survive. Our relationships have become an addition to a favorite outfit, a way to release stress, a favorite pasttime enjoyed by all. That's not to say a good one is easy to find.

Love, like all nonessential luxury item, is often expensive and hard to find. You may end up on a waiting list for years or held back by circumstances beyond our control. But when you walk down the street with your imported Italian hanging stylishly on your arm, you'll be glad you waited. There is no accessory as becoming as love.

-Angela Gilltrap

She makes it sound like emotions dont fuck your brains. Like everything is systematic and formulated. Bullshit.

She's got a point somehow though.

To K, the realer deal.

I don't want more of you
I don't want less of you

But we are going that way, if my instincts are correct
And in this case, I am trusting my instincts.






It is so complicated, this affair.

I'm just pretty sure you complete me.

You make me happy. In ways more than a friend could. And its a wonder, isn't it? It's a trick.

You fuel me these days.




I don't want you to be a part of the collection.
I don't want to lose you as a friend.
I've never been in such a cliche situation with so much complication.

Brotherhood

Rr,

You are a blessing.
You are the only man in the world whom God has forbidden me to be malicious to.
Ugh, grammar sucks.

I love you very dearly.

You are my brother. You are my soulmate.

I love you and I find no shame in saying it.



I only hope that I will feel this way for you 'til the end of time.

You are the link that completes me. :)

The Not

Part of the string of consequences I get from the errs I've accumulated from the past is that O, aka the Outlaw, is hesitating.

He hesitates because, in the first fucking place, he doesnt want a girlfriend anyway. In the second, fucking place, the main plan has always been myself and him as friends and nothing more.

But more than that, he does not want to be a part of my collection of guys who liked me in the first place. Of the guys I kissed in the building.


Can I blame him?



In my first fucking place anyway, I don't want a boyfriend too anyway. And I like being friends with him.

And I don't know if I can handle being girlfriends with a guy whose had all the effinng experience in the world with all sort of girls.


Can you blame me?



Either way, I am in no position to complain. Or even to be sad about this. Because given a choice to be with him and not, I'd rather not as stated from the reasons above.


If this were a normal cliche literature, I would've injected something in this line in the content of: "but who knows" or "but things can't be helped" and moer cliche`-lly "love or whatever you call this pyschological emotional phenomenon can find its way to you when you don't want to."

Prosepoetry.

Sago
(In raw form)


Poetry:

The most beautiful thing anout you
My beautiful Mr. Outlaw
Is your touch.

Rather, the lack of it.


How someone I expect
To slyly glide his skin
On exposed patches of mine
Doesnt.

How the rest of the world
Play saints and heroes
And you, Mr. Outlaw
Can't even bring yourself to touch me.

My Mr. Outlaw
Your my Mr. Outlaw
And I'm the frail little princess queen
With the fragile heart and brittle bones


You are the foreseeable future
To my a-haunting past
Event travelling slowly
In a timeline a tad too fast


You curl up the little wild child me
And put me in your pocket
Safe, unharmed, clanginging with your coins and bullets

And I fall asleep with a crisp blanket of you
All over my untouched skin.



Prose:


The most beautifuk thing about you, my beautiful Mr. Outlaw, is your touch. Rather, the lack of it. How someone I expect to slyly glide his skin on exposed patches of mine doesnt. How the rest of the world plays saints and heroes, and you, Mr. Outlaw, can't even bring youself to touch me.

My Mr.Outlaw, you're my Mr. Outlaw and I'm your frail little princess queen, with the fragile heart and brittle bones.

You are the foreseaablefuture to my a-haunting past. Events travel slowly in a timeline a tad too fast.


You curl up the little wild child me and put me in your pocket, safe, unharmed, clanging with your coins and bullets. And I fall asleep with a crisp white blanket of you all over my untouched skin.



Prose Wins.