So. Here I sit. I can't get back to sleep. The sound of your voice is still echoing in my ears. Infact on night's like this, everything you have said echos and vibrates inside my head. Back and forth, like an extensive game of pong. What the fuck. I can't even think of pong without thinking of you. Oh, how you make me smile. I should take comfort in the fact that as I sat on the edge of tears the thought of you making that pong noise made me smile. Oh, how you make me smile. Sometimes it is so much more simple to wish you did not. I am ashamed to admit that while you make me so happy, there are times I wish you did not. I can't even look at the large painting on my bedroom wall without thinking of you. The blanket I pull around me most times is worse. It does absolutely nothing BUT remind me of you. It's not that I don't love you, or that I don't want you to make me happy. It's just that things are so confusing and difficult on both ends. Oh, what twisted webs we weave. I see my spinnings crystal clear, and now I just wish I could see yours. So many questions. I wish I could ask..but I just can't. I don't want to make you angry or upset, yet there is nothing I want more than the answers.I am finding myself so concerned with trivial things that maybe should not matter at all. They fucking matter to me. I'm in over my head, and you can keep me from drowning. I'm just too afraid to ask for help. I'm afraid you won't say what I need to hear. I'm afraid it's all a game, and I'm a pawn. I am fed up with being afraid. I'm fed up with alot lately. My wires are overheating, my springs are wound too tightly. Poutbot 3000 is going to be broken and emo for good if she doesn't get it all straight. No, it's not the same conversation we have had a hundred times. I promise. I have this sinking feeling that suddenly you have turned in to every other guy I have ever known. It is making me sick inside. Don't get angry. Don't yell. It's not what you think. I've always had you on this pedastal. I am sitting here, watching it wobble, praying you will not fall. I am so terrified one whisper of the wrong question, and it will all crash to the floor. The breeze from my soft voice trembling and requesting an answer, along with the familiar deep comfort of yours answering me "incorrectly" will turn it all to dust. I don't know what I am. I am not even sure what I want to be to you anymore if I could pick anything I desired. I'm rambling. Do you hate it yet? Am I just here to stroke your ego? God I hate this. I forgot what it's like to be heartbroken, even if maybe it's crumbling prematurely this time.
I feel sick. I'm going to go smoke, and force myself asleep. Yes, thats right, I'm going to smoke. I'm going to watch the gray liquid air rise into nothing and pretend I have a clue.You should love the girl - not the game, lover. Eh, I still love you. Why do you love me?
Thursday, March 4, 2010
1928
Old worn pages.
I love feeling swallowed by this pile of books around me.
I love the way this one feels in my hands.
I adore the way that one smells when I hold it close to me.
I like to gaze at the cover of those.
The binding is beaten, and the green long faded.
There is no title.
The pleasure of running my fingers over the cover before flipping it open makes me smile.
In 1928, Someone's heart was broken.
The old, faded pencil out lines "Love Infinite".
I read it now, and understand their pain.
The longer you flip through, the more prose you see marked.
All of it about love, heartache, loss.
Against my better judgement, I opened his composition book.
I flip through some pages of teenage, angst-filled poetry.
I have read alot of this before just as I have written my own share of it way back when.
Somewhere in the center of the notebook, something catches my eye.
"Dear Shannon....this was meant to be a poem....".
I know perhaps I shouldn't finish reading it.
I know I should set his book back in its place, and leave it be.
At the end of the letter meant to be a poem, I sit here crying.
What happened? It is so obvious he no longer feels that way.
Even if he still believed every word he had written five years ago, I am afraid finding this is too little, too late.
Just as in 1928, here..now..., someone's heart is broken.
The small, white cover is comforting.
I remember when I was done reading this book, I knew that it was okay to be my crazy, broken self.
The character made no sense, and he barely knew right from wrong.
He was the demon lying inside us all.
The man who doesn't care, and is free.
So much time has passed since I first cracked it open.
I have two copies; the reason why is a long story.
The brown leather makes me smile.
So many secrets inside it.
So much stuff written about you, actually.
It's my new confidente, aside from my heart holder ofcourse.
It is what I use when you are not around.
It is the thing that hears me first, before I even think of typing it out here.
I started using it not long before all this craziness started.
It is quite a gift.
I tuck it away, hiding it.
Now I just hide the book, not my emotions.
Thanks.
I love feeling swallowed by this pile of books around me.
I love the way this one feels in my hands.
I adore the way that one smells when I hold it close to me.
I like to gaze at the cover of those.
The binding is beaten, and the green long faded.
There is no title.
The pleasure of running my fingers over the cover before flipping it open makes me smile.
In 1928, Someone's heart was broken.
The old, faded pencil out lines "Love Infinite".
I read it now, and understand their pain.
The longer you flip through, the more prose you see marked.
All of it about love, heartache, loss.
Against my better judgement, I opened his composition book.
I flip through some pages of teenage, angst-filled poetry.
I have read alot of this before just as I have written my own share of it way back when.
Somewhere in the center of the notebook, something catches my eye.
"Dear Shannon....this was meant to be a poem....".
I know perhaps I shouldn't finish reading it.
I know I should set his book back in its place, and leave it be.
At the end of the letter meant to be a poem, I sit here crying.
What happened? It is so obvious he no longer feels that way.
Even if he still believed every word he had written five years ago, I am afraid finding this is too little, too late.
Just as in 1928, here..now..., someone's heart is broken.
The small, white cover is comforting.
I remember when I was done reading this book, I knew that it was okay to be my crazy, broken self.
The character made no sense, and he barely knew right from wrong.
He was the demon lying inside us all.
The man who doesn't care, and is free.
So much time has passed since I first cracked it open.
I have two copies; the reason why is a long story.
The brown leather makes me smile.
So many secrets inside it.
So much stuff written about you, actually.
It's my new confidente, aside from my heart holder ofcourse.
It is what I use when you are not around.
It is the thing that hears me first, before I even think of typing it out here.
I started using it not long before all this craziness started.
It is quite a gift.
I tuck it away, hiding it.
Now I just hide the book, not my emotions.
Thanks.
Clocks
Don't hurt me.
Thanks for pulling me out of that pitfall today.
You didn't even have to try that hard, it is so completely odd what you do to me.
Even now, I still do not understand it.
You know I love it.
There are so many things that just...are.
I feel like there is no explaination for it.
No reason...it just exists.
You have turned me into a clock watcher.
I am not complaining whatsoever.
I wish I didn't have these pangs of jealousy, though.
It is so absolutely unfair and dreadful of me.
I swear I want you to be happy.
That oath still doesn't make some of this stuff go away.
Love you.
I'll always want for more, just like I want the time to change right now.
This very moment.
I'm strangely okay with it all, but not.
Like most things that involve you, it is so simple and hard to explain.
Thanks for pulling me out of that pitfall today.
You didn't even have to try that hard, it is so completely odd what you do to me.
Even now, I still do not understand it.
You know I love it.
There are so many things that just...are.
I feel like there is no explaination for it.
No reason...it just exists.
You have turned me into a clock watcher.
I am not complaining whatsoever.
I wish I didn't have these pangs of jealousy, though.
It is so absolutely unfair and dreadful of me.
I swear I want you to be happy.
That oath still doesn't make some of this stuff go away.
Love you.
I'll always want for more, just like I want the time to change right now.
This very moment.
I'm strangely okay with it all, but not.
Like most things that involve you, it is so simple and hard to explain.
For Reiley, my one and only breadman
A blinding beauty is always held deep inside of us.
A burning beast resides along with it.
A blissful, breathtaking balance is found within both of us.
When the rage is all consuming, I feel your gentle and strong hands wrap themselves around my delicate, tumultuous heart.
You embrace it to perfection; a calming effect like this is found nowhere else on this terra.
Emotional beasts of prey are randomly set loose.
You rein them in and stop the downward plummet before I reach the nethermost.
Passionate beasts full of torridity engulf my body and thoughts.
You ease them and satisfy them beyond comprehension.
An astonishing show of love, depth, dedication, and geniune care.
The passion is volatile; it is ready to drive you mad at any moment.
What fun would it be if it weren't dangerous?
Would you enjoy it so much if you knew you weren't pressing too far?
The jealousy, the arousal, the teasing, and the preparation are all too powerful ways to play.
Hands elegantly pressing my buttons, and testing where my love lies.
I love our public displays of affection, and I moreso love the displays of power.
You anger the beast within. As it begins to snarl, I feel your alluring consolation ; and you soon return the animal to a purr.
Your beauty wraps itself around my everything, and the balance is complete.
The sultry night would linger for days.
I am yours to control.
You are mine to control.
Our attention will forever be demanded.
We realise the temptations and problems of getting too caught up; let us both becareful to not get out of control with our control.
I will be your beauty, and you shall be my beast.
You will be my beauty, and I shall be your beast. Balance.
Let our story lead us not through real conflict, and times of mistrust.
Instead, let us play each other's buttons, and slay the demons feeding on our hearts.
Let our roles be balanced for each other, and let us always be resolved in our status and duties to each other.
Beauty.
Beast.
Balance.
A burning beast resides along with it.
A blissful, breathtaking balance is found within both of us.
When the rage is all consuming, I feel your gentle and strong hands wrap themselves around my delicate, tumultuous heart.
You embrace it to perfection; a calming effect like this is found nowhere else on this terra.
Emotional beasts of prey are randomly set loose.
You rein them in and stop the downward plummet before I reach the nethermost.
Passionate beasts full of torridity engulf my body and thoughts.
You ease them and satisfy them beyond comprehension.
An astonishing show of love, depth, dedication, and geniune care.
The passion is volatile; it is ready to drive you mad at any moment.
What fun would it be if it weren't dangerous?
Would you enjoy it so much if you knew you weren't pressing too far?
The jealousy, the arousal, the teasing, and the preparation are all too powerful ways to play.
Hands elegantly pressing my buttons, and testing where my love lies.
I love our public displays of affection, and I moreso love the displays of power.
You anger the beast within. As it begins to snarl, I feel your alluring consolation ; and you soon return the animal to a purr.
Your beauty wraps itself around my everything, and the balance is complete.
The sultry night would linger for days.
I am yours to control.
You are mine to control.
Our attention will forever be demanded.
We realise the temptations and problems of getting too caught up; let us both becareful to not get out of control with our control.
I will be your beauty, and you shall be my beast.
You will be my beauty, and I shall be your beast. Balance.
Let our story lead us not through real conflict, and times of mistrust.
Instead, let us play each other's buttons, and slay the demons feeding on our hearts.
Let our roles be balanced for each other, and let us always be resolved in our status and duties to each other.
Beauty.
Beast.
Balance.
A love letter to no one for everyone to see.
My mind explodes in thought.
Of everything I said, everything I want to say, everything that could be said. My eyes can't focus on anything for too long, they drift away.
They sparkle and green ideas gaze into some non-existant future.
My concentration stutters and fails.
You cause it do that often, actually.
My ears are filled with Etta James's heartbreak and love affairs.
I easily feel her voice.
I am sorry I made this invisible mold for you.
I know I made it, but I don't want you to fit it.
Please, don't ever fit it.
I only want things from you that you want to give me.
words included.
No matter what my lips display and ask of you, be you.
I only want you, your brokeness, your perfections, and your broken belongings.
The only thing you need to provide is what I fell in love with.
All I want is the one thing I think about all the time.
All I need is the thing, that no matter of everything that has happened, I can't shake the desire to have-the thing I never want to lose the desire to have.
My green ideas dull slightly as the salty, liquid pain escapes.
You are worth the tears.
Yes, Etta, I do want a Sunday kinda love.
Sometimes I am not sure he does, Etta.
I said it already...when you know what you want, I will be here waiting.
Everything ripped away, this is all I have.
This is all you get.
Do you want it?
Sorry, I forgot, you don't know; and I will not ask again.
I am only strong enough to be weak once.
I am one of your broken belongings, you know?
I am not sure you ever asked for me, or purchased me, but that is just the way it is now.
All I do is go out of my way to make you feel good, to feel better, to be happy, to give you whatever it is you don't know if you want.
All I do is love you the only way I know to love something amazing like you.
Everything you said, ever, quickly drowns out Etta.
My green ideas are quickly becoming red and the water will not stop falling.
Yes, I hear what you say and I understand.
You do not understand, and I am so scared to try and explain it to you.
I know, I know, nothing I can say will change anything; but it has before and it will now.
I can't shut it off.
The button of over analyzation has been pressed.
You know all to well the switch to this insanity lies nowhere, but everywhere.
It's the tiny, meaningless things that break my heart.
The silly things I wish you would do, you know; the silly things I do with my best friend.
Those things I am not sure you are comfortable with, or maybe they are things you just don't want to do with me.
Maybe you are afraid of them?
I can't ask you for them, that goes back to the mold.
You aren't the one squeezing to hard; I am breaking my own.
Maybe I do it for you, so you do not have the guilt of its emptiness.
Words just fucking stroll and march out, and I can't stop them; and sometimes I do not even know what I'm saying until it has been broadcast over a network of destroyed emotions.
I do my Sunday dreaming every minute, and every hour of everyday.
I'm aware that is all they are...silly dreams.
Stupid, unrealistic, silly dreams of a stupid girl with sad, tearful, green ideas.
Someone to keep me warm when Monday and Tuesday are too cold.
I love the fact you would never lie to me.
You would never tell me what I want to hear.
Don't ever stop doing that, no matter what I say.
I'm scared to sleep; I have had enough flawlessly not achievable dreams about you while I have been awake.
Go ahead, tell me again, and again, and again, and once more.
Actions speak so much louder, and I believe you anyway when you speak your gorgeous words.
I am not enough, this is not enough, even if it makes you happy for now.
I'm aware that I am better than nothing at all; but what of me and my long, lost sunday love when something better comes along?
I do so tire of being treated differently.
Please explain it to me.
Fucking tell me why it has to be different in front of certain people.
Infact, why do some of the things you say to other girls in front of everyone, jokingly, taste sweeter than the real things you say to me.
I don't care, I refuse to let small flirtations bother me.
My sad green ideas keep flirting with closing and sleeping.
I know I flirt too much; I catch myself and stop now, just for you.
It is always only you, for you, everything for you.
I hate feeling naked and vulernable and weak.
I hate feeling like I am not worthy or good enough.
I love feeling like you love me.
I am going to push away the crazy, randomness now, and just be.
I wish it were with you; but until you know.....
I will be waiting here, just being.
Tuck me into "that" blanket. Green eggs and ham. Goodnight lover.
Of everything I said, everything I want to say, everything that could be said. My eyes can't focus on anything for too long, they drift away.
They sparkle and green ideas gaze into some non-existant future.
My concentration stutters and fails.
You cause it do that often, actually.
My ears are filled with Etta James's heartbreak and love affairs.
I easily feel her voice.
I am sorry I made this invisible mold for you.
I know I made it, but I don't want you to fit it.
Please, don't ever fit it.
I only want things from you that you want to give me.
words included.
No matter what my lips display and ask of you, be you.
I only want you, your brokeness, your perfections, and your broken belongings.
The only thing you need to provide is what I fell in love with.
All I want is the one thing I think about all the time.
All I need is the thing, that no matter of everything that has happened, I can't shake the desire to have-the thing I never want to lose the desire to have.
My green ideas dull slightly as the salty, liquid pain escapes.
You are worth the tears.
Yes, Etta, I do want a Sunday kinda love.
Sometimes I am not sure he does, Etta.
I said it already...when you know what you want, I will be here waiting.
Everything ripped away, this is all I have.
This is all you get.
Do you want it?
Sorry, I forgot, you don't know; and I will not ask again.
I am only strong enough to be weak once.
I am one of your broken belongings, you know?
I am not sure you ever asked for me, or purchased me, but that is just the way it is now.
All I do is go out of my way to make you feel good, to feel better, to be happy, to give you whatever it is you don't know if you want.
All I do is love you the only way I know to love something amazing like you.
Everything you said, ever, quickly drowns out Etta.
My green ideas are quickly becoming red and the water will not stop falling.
Yes, I hear what you say and I understand.
You do not understand, and I am so scared to try and explain it to you.
I know, I know, nothing I can say will change anything; but it has before and it will now.
I can't shut it off.
The button of over analyzation has been pressed.
You know all to well the switch to this insanity lies nowhere, but everywhere.
It's the tiny, meaningless things that break my heart.
The silly things I wish you would do, you know; the silly things I do with my best friend.
Those things I am not sure you are comfortable with, or maybe they are things you just don't want to do with me.
Maybe you are afraid of them?
I can't ask you for them, that goes back to the mold.
You aren't the one squeezing to hard; I am breaking my own.
Maybe I do it for you, so you do not have the guilt of its emptiness.
Words just fucking stroll and march out, and I can't stop them; and sometimes I do not even know what I'm saying until it has been broadcast over a network of destroyed emotions.
I do my Sunday dreaming every minute, and every hour of everyday.
I'm aware that is all they are...silly dreams.
Stupid, unrealistic, silly dreams of a stupid girl with sad, tearful, green ideas.
Someone to keep me warm when Monday and Tuesday are too cold.
I love the fact you would never lie to me.
You would never tell me what I want to hear.
Don't ever stop doing that, no matter what I say.
I'm scared to sleep; I have had enough flawlessly not achievable dreams about you while I have been awake.
Go ahead, tell me again, and again, and again, and once more.
Actions speak so much louder, and I believe you anyway when you speak your gorgeous words.
I am not enough, this is not enough, even if it makes you happy for now.
I'm aware that I am better than nothing at all; but what of me and my long, lost sunday love when something better comes along?
I do so tire of being treated differently.
Please explain it to me.
Fucking tell me why it has to be different in front of certain people.
Infact, why do some of the things you say to other girls in front of everyone, jokingly, taste sweeter than the real things you say to me.
I don't care, I refuse to let small flirtations bother me.
My sad green ideas keep flirting with closing and sleeping.
I know I flirt too much; I catch myself and stop now, just for you.
It is always only you, for you, everything for you.
I hate feeling naked and vulernable and weak.
I hate feeling like I am not worthy or good enough.
I love feeling like you love me.
I am going to push away the crazy, randomness now, and just be.
I wish it were with you; but until you know.....
I will be waiting here, just being.
Tuck me into "that" blanket. Green eggs and ham. Goodnight lover.
Going Home.
Going home is such a ridiculous statement. You can never go home. You cannot go back to what once was. Ofcourse it is physically there for most of us, but for me it will never be what I remember. It will never be what I loved. Infact, did I love it all to have left it the way I did? Everytime I go "home", I walk in as if I had never left. It feels so far from natural its not describable. I don't belong there anymore. I am merely a guest with a lifetime pass. God how I miss the trees, the smell of clean air, the dark nights with stars, and the small roads that need patching. With all the things time has let me forget, I cannot shake the sound of my blazer pulling out of the gravel drive way. I can clearly see the road to my house and the four way stop sign I ran on many drunken nights. My blazer is long sold and wrecked. That is not my road or my house or my driveway. I ran away from all that years ago. I escaped, and I hate when I have to turn around and look back.
I should be asleep. I have important things to do 'morrow. Her words keep running through my head, and I am worried. " Shannon, I need you to come home a few days early. We have to talk. There are things I ~need~ you to know incase I don't make it through the surgery" I pleaded with her to tell me now. The rest of her words keep a steady echo vibrating in my mind. "No Shanny, things like this are best said in person. It's my responsibility to tell you face to face." Secrets are best served fried. The south greases them and hands them to you with hospitality, that is assuming the tell you at all. Most secrets are silenced down there in the humidity. White lies and dirty laundry quickly drowned out by Southern belle accents and Jook-joint Blues. The elders you are taught to respect tuck the truth away in the large oak trees you play in as a child. They bury them in the fresh, sweet grass while you are distracted with running through the sprinklers in the thick summer air. The Bible belt is a dangerous place for those who made the choice to stop hiding. Please don't worry Mother. I promise you taught me well. I will not tell. I dread what you must tell me, but I know all to well how this works. You cannot take it to your grave, but I know I must promise to take it to mine. Mother, don't cry; you know I am coming to hear your confession. I forgive you. I have no choice but to forgive you. I told you that you raised a southern girl. It is safe with me. Let us have catfish for supper afterwards, we can pretend you never said anything.
I should be asleep. I have important things to do 'morrow. Her words keep running through my head, and I am worried. " Shannon, I need you to come home a few days early. We have to talk. There are things I ~need~ you to know incase I don't make it through the surgery" I pleaded with her to tell me now. The rest of her words keep a steady echo vibrating in my mind. "No Shanny, things like this are best said in person. It's my responsibility to tell you face to face." Secrets are best served fried. The south greases them and hands them to you with hospitality, that is assuming the tell you at all. Most secrets are silenced down there in the humidity. White lies and dirty laundry quickly drowned out by Southern belle accents and Jook-joint Blues. The elders you are taught to respect tuck the truth away in the large oak trees you play in as a child. They bury them in the fresh, sweet grass while you are distracted with running through the sprinklers in the thick summer air. The Bible belt is a dangerous place for those who made the choice to stop hiding. Please don't worry Mother. I promise you taught me well. I will not tell. I dread what you must tell me, but I know all to well how this works. You cannot take it to your grave, but I know I must promise to take it to mine. Mother, don't cry; you know I am coming to hear your confession. I forgive you. I have no choice but to forgive you. I told you that you raised a southern girl. It is safe with me. Let us have catfish for supper afterwards, we can pretend you never said anything.
Bread is my Best Friend
Everyone is jaded somehow.
Every single one of us.
Bitchy Shannon is vulnerable, lashing out in an attempt to push people away.
Hippy Shannon is guarded, letting people believe she is sweet and loveable.
Gangsta Shannon is ghetto, knowing not everything is peachy.
Naked Shannon is pure, fresh, and clean. She is yet to be altered adversely by the gauntlet of people she must run everday. She wakes up safe. She holds her heart in her hands, kisses it hello, and promises it that it will be safe today.
You are so beautiful when you aren't pretending to be okay.
I am confused, I thought Hippy Shannon was my favorite, even though her smile makes you anxious.
I know Gangsta Shannon is so much fun because she is wild.
I am disgusted by Bitchy Shannon, I hate her.
I am terrified of Naked Shannon.
Captain: Oh Breadman, why is not alright to just be up front with everyone and just hand them yourself and say "Hey. I'm broken, so are you, lets be friends."
Breadman: Cuz people like to deny being broken, or poke at other peoples broken parts to make themselves feel better.
Captain: But if we all admitted it forwardly, it wouldn't be anything to poke at. It would be like poking your own wounds then, and not many people are sadistic enough to do that, right?
Breadman: Sometimes tho you find some people that you can say "hey, I am broken, and so are you, lets go find some tape."
Captain: Breadman, I think we lost our tape, sir.
Breadman: We will use rice then! I am asian! I have lots, and it works well.
Captain: *laughs*
Captain: Well, Wolfie stole some tape. He patches me up regularly, but I'm short. He holds it above his head. I can't reach it to steal it back to tape him up.
Breadman: Well then we will go find others who have tape, but we will go together just incase we come across something that is hard to pass alone.
Breadman: Maybe you don't need his tape.
Breadman: Maybe someone is holding tape for you at a better height.
Breadman: I am still looking for my tape dispenser, but I think you have more than one.
Captain: It is pretty horrible to think I have used so much of Wolfie's tape, only to hobble away with the pieces he fixed to find more convient tape that is easier to achieve.
Breadman: Are you missing pieces?
Breadman: Are you leaving pieces of yourself behind evertime you go to Wolfie for a patching?
Captain: No, they just dont like to stay together.
Breadman: maybe his tape no workie for you then?
Captain: My repeatedly breaking pieces are not to be blamed on his perfect tape.
Captain: Breadman, he definitely stole one piece, and because that piece breakes more often than others, he decided to keep it safe for me.
Breadman: Captain, did he steal it from you, or did you give it to him?
Breadman: Stealing implies you wanting to keep it in the first place, or you did not want him to have it. So which is it?
Captain: Wolfie holds it for me, and it hasn't gotten lost or hurt in a long while, except on the few instances he squeezes it a little to hard. When I go to him, and he has it, it all just feels together again.
Captain: I definitely gave it to him. Naked Captain was holding it, and she kissed it goodbye and handed it away.
Breadman: Captain, if you love Wolfie's tape this much, and trust him with your loose parts, and you really mean it, then I'm happy. Just becareful with his broken pieces, and always examine your tape dispensers.
Wolfie: Hello there Captain.
Captain: *sighs contentedly*
Every single one of us.
Bitchy Shannon is vulnerable, lashing out in an attempt to push people away.
Hippy Shannon is guarded, letting people believe she is sweet and loveable.
Gangsta Shannon is ghetto, knowing not everything is peachy.
Naked Shannon is pure, fresh, and clean. She is yet to be altered adversely by the gauntlet of people she must run everday. She wakes up safe. She holds her heart in her hands, kisses it hello, and promises it that it will be safe today.
You are so beautiful when you aren't pretending to be okay.
I am confused, I thought Hippy Shannon was my favorite, even though her smile makes you anxious.
I know Gangsta Shannon is so much fun because she is wild.
I am disgusted by Bitchy Shannon, I hate her.
I am terrified of Naked Shannon.
Captain: Oh Breadman, why is not alright to just be up front with everyone and just hand them yourself and say "Hey. I'm broken, so are you, lets be friends."
Breadman: Cuz people like to deny being broken, or poke at other peoples broken parts to make themselves feel better.
Captain: But if we all admitted it forwardly, it wouldn't be anything to poke at. It would be like poking your own wounds then, and not many people are sadistic enough to do that, right?
Breadman: Sometimes tho you find some people that you can say "hey, I am broken, and so are you, lets go find some tape."
Captain: Breadman, I think we lost our tape, sir.
Breadman: We will use rice then! I am asian! I have lots, and it works well.
Captain: *laughs*
Captain: Well, Wolfie stole some tape. He patches me up regularly, but I'm short. He holds it above his head. I can't reach it to steal it back to tape him up.
Breadman: Well then we will go find others who have tape, but we will go together just incase we come across something that is hard to pass alone.
Breadman: Maybe you don't need his tape.
Breadman: Maybe someone is holding tape for you at a better height.
Breadman: I am still looking for my tape dispenser, but I think you have more than one.
Captain: It is pretty horrible to think I have used so much of Wolfie's tape, only to hobble away with the pieces he fixed to find more convient tape that is easier to achieve.
Breadman: Are you missing pieces?
Breadman: Are you leaving pieces of yourself behind evertime you go to Wolfie for a patching?
Captain: No, they just dont like to stay together.
Breadman: maybe his tape no workie for you then?
Captain: My repeatedly breaking pieces are not to be blamed on his perfect tape.
Captain: Breadman, he definitely stole one piece, and because that piece breakes more often than others, he decided to keep it safe for me.
Breadman: Captain, did he steal it from you, or did you give it to him?
Breadman: Stealing implies you wanting to keep it in the first place, or you did not want him to have it. So which is it?
Captain: Wolfie holds it for me, and it hasn't gotten lost or hurt in a long while, except on the few instances he squeezes it a little to hard. When I go to him, and he has it, it all just feels together again.
Captain: I definitely gave it to him. Naked Captain was holding it, and she kissed it goodbye and handed it away.
Breadman: Captain, if you love Wolfie's tape this much, and trust him with your loose parts, and you really mean it, then I'm happy. Just becareful with his broken pieces, and always examine your tape dispensers.
Wolfie: Hello there Captain.
Captain: *sighs contentedly*
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