August 24th, Year of the Corpse

I have told many men that I loved them, as a joke in poor taste. What I have found is that when something is repeatedly presented as a fact, it takes on that shape. While a gingerbread house is not as durable or reliable as a real house, it makes for a satisfying substitute.

I don’t think that the seed I offer should be rejected, because it isn’t a ripened fruit. I fabricate such wonderful stories, that everything takes on the feeling of authenticity. If fairy tales enthralled in childhood, then one should allow them to have equal influence in adulthood.
My affections may not be real, but I can promise all that no difference will be noticed. I am no more likely to leave, than a woman truly in love. In fact, less. Less, because my investment isn’t as high, so the loss can’t ever be staggering.

The greatest tragedy I have ever experienced is my own need for control.

Of every man, I have made an unworthy wretch. Of every woman, a flickering ghost. Of every experience, a film I retired from prematurely.

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August 24th, Year of the Corpse

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