just one of these incandescent cliches which always sound stupid, even from the mouth of a triple PhD'd doctor.
it's a car congratulating cement in the wrong lane. or even in the right lane. it's a tumour that's formed in the malignant mylofibrephobia of the human food processor. it's a gun or a knife or a strangle on some foreign food. it's weird, the ways in which the human body tries to destroy itself. it's weird how we're walking reduce-reuse-recycle plants.
were it not for the ongoing-ness of my relationship with steve, i would almost be obligated to write an ode. an ode to the longest relationship i've ever been in, and an ode to how commitment clearly will result in the death of me. or at least my intestines, for that matter. there's been the many bathrooms: the holes in the land of the paraguayan dirt, the flatulent air-cushioned toilets of the south american luxury world; the pinks, the wall decors, the family photos to spruce up the canadian holy shits. there's been the characters of the medical rooms, who range from gangue-greened feet to the elderly gentlemen who ask for a date. the doctors, who dress themselves up to make themselves that much more beautiful than the rest of us sickly lowlifes. i think the ego boost was half the reason they applied for the job. the constant "how are you's", the salted faces, and the jesus talks. but let's be reasonable, he deserves his own ode, completely vacant of any steve's.
some charts and 3-digit numbers that tell my life story. this is what i've been reduced to. this is what we become. a fragile adult infant.