Mar. 20, 2004 @ 7:35 p.m.

It’s not that I want to fall in love, because love is truly rotten to the core like a bad apple that no one could give to even the most evil of junior high principals. It’s that I want my army of goosebumps to rise from your command. It’s that I want the feeling of your hair as it slides across my open skin, over your mouth, with the tips of it stuck to my lips when it gets the chance between those times when your lips are stuck as well. Love is jealous. It’s the high school jock everyone hated because it sounded and looked so beautiful on the outside. But with a little, somewhat in-depth research, it was discovered to be as lonely as the darkest of rooms with nothing but a nightstand, a rusted lamp projecting a shattered lightbulb and telephone. This room missing everything, including a phone jack. Love is too blind to know, to dumb to see. Love is something that was invented by humans to make everyone feel better. Just like how the toys in a Cracker Jack box were placed there to make you feel like you shouldn’t have any guilt for eating the whole box, or at a minimal confession, fingered every kernel just to see what lied beneath. What I want feels like true intentions of the inner body, blissful satisfaction and a caressing, comforting blanket for my senses that have been stuck out in the winter solstice for too many years in the dying, dreary, sunless cold without Chapstick or matches. I want to feel as if I’m burning like a sweet, vanilla candle in the afternoon sunlight on your windowsill. But when I find “love,” she will never satisfy me, just like I will never satisfy her, because what we’re both after is a fictional depiction of tangibles from another realm and as of yet, there’s no ship or transportation to get there. Time to reinvent the subway, People.