... are like a finely aged pile of shit. A dry fissured exterior hiding a still moist, still warm center of bronze ambrosia of the perfect consistency. I promised myself I would not come back. Yet like the prodigal son, I have returned. Unable to resist the temptation to poke you with a stick or to crush you beneath my feet. To feel you explode between my toes with all your pungent glory.


How are you doing? Are you living at your parents? Are you seeing any nice girls? Are you doing your laundry?