Feb. 21, 2004 @ 11:25 p.m.

The chances of my glue sticking to your wood are about a millon to one. I’m the old guy who buys 20 lottery tickets at once with the hope of winning enough money to buy bread for the family. Hoping for just more than enough winnings to cover that bread with juicy, tasteful adornment. I hope, just like him, that I won’t be left standing on the corner, let down as I pathetically whimper and weaken in the knees at another failed attempt of decency. Tastes in my mouth fall just short of an acid, just short of base, leaving a truly unadmired amount of neutrality dangling at the break of my throat every time I swallow. Opening up to you means exposing my razor sharp teeth and I’m not quite convinced that I’m ready to swallow you whole. Let’s keep swimming...?