Mar. 16, 2004 @ 9:39 p.m.

There’s more to our lust than this. Hidden just over the nearest of the rolling hills lies a fundamental power struggle. We keep pausing the game, like it’s as easily done as by pushing a button in the middle of greasy control pad, swapping positions like reset, switching our colors and numbers and which view of the split screen needs the most attention paid to it. Changing our scenery and surroundings by the push of a directional pad, selecting weather conditions and vital signs at emotional will. Inevitably, the person on top is the one who currently likes the other less. So that means as of this current moment in time I’m slamming you, bombarding you with various types of projectiles until I decide that I can like you more again and let you begin tossing your imaginably tangible items back at me. There’s nothing to say over breakfast, I mean, we did just wake up. Nothing went wrong in the shower, you didn’t burn the toast and I didn’t mismix the grape juice, so we’ll just sit in silence as we secretly decide who’s going to play atop our Bunker Hill today. As we reenact the Battle of Wounded Knee Creek, I’ll pretend the scorekeeper pressed your button once too often, crying like a boy in wolf. We’ll keep doing this for months until we agreeably decide, like children, that Cowboys and Indians weren’t ever that much into each other anyway. This is our generation’s popgun war and the string holding my voice in place just came unglued. "Mommy! Mommy!"