March 16th, Year of the Corpse

Eli is an anagram for lie. I wear this, not necessarily against my will, but because I can afford nothing better. It is still a good fit. It protects me from the cold.

Last night, I lost my common sense somewhere under Jennifer’s cluttered kitchen table. I felt oppressed by it, after a glass of wine. After five glasses of wine, I set it down, where it made its way to the ground when a cough blew it there.

It was Cabernet that wrote a letter to Robert, full of spiteful sentiment. Then, it wrote to the Virgin of the Sea, who responded that he loved me. Finally, it asked Joseph and another man to fuck me, though not together. It is my morals that hold up my underwear.

I am a poorly written movie. My acts of seduction are full-force parodies.

Just when I thought the night would end, having made a fool out of myself enough for the season, Merlot stepped in. I am not the type of woman to reject such a beauty. I am not the type to reject much at all. Not Jennifer’s lips when offered to me, though it caused an overwhelming sense of disgust. Not Marcus’s lips, when Jennifer called him over so that she could have sex with him, though his interest has always been in me. Not the temptation to go home, though it was unsafe to do so.

Now, my stomach is an unsettled as my head.

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March 16th, Year of the Corpse

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