i have been writing my letter of resignation to peeping tom; it's a putrid activity. my ear is sore, it might be blood coming out, but since i can't see round there, i can't say for sure. it's reminding me of ivor cutler, and he's reminding me of the boy down the street (who likes politics) (who i used to love).
when i ate the pawpaw earlier, and i was scraping out the seeds, i thought they were like little sperm. or massive ball-shaped sperm. they were really pleasant inside my mouth.
to be sure, i won't give tom the resignation. but to be sure, drafting a resignation is as good as resigning.
resigning from romance. it's putrid. i'd rather sieve my own vomit.
i figure tom just likes to fall in love with my ghost. he talks to my ghost. he told me. he talks to my ghost and he doesn't talk to me. he seems to think we can live off of the idea of eachother. he's an idiot.
i had breakfast with my lesbian aunt and she said she's mourning the loss of the penis. i told her she could have a penis too. she said she might give boys another try.
mother of pearl.