You are eating my adolescence. It is a long wet noodle continually sliding through the lips past the tongue down the esophagus. It is coiled like a cobra only for the approximation of a few years. It is the green apple you bit into. I will never be this young again. I am no longer that young. My floor will always be covered in documentations of my presence, in millions of ugly printed words. I am the textbooks I have never read right now being snowed on persistently. My ears are dogged and my feet are wet. The water is climbing up my shoes. The door is swinging wide. The couch cushions are sinking beneath my ribbed torso. I am still no longer that young. You are still eating the noodle.
About
Sometimes I sit in my basement in my underwear and begrudgingly watch George Lopez at 2 a.m. and eat consecutive bowls of Honey Nut Cheerios. I would like to meet a pleasant girl with long dark hair who likes 20th Century Classical music and doesn't mind the fact that my showers are infrequent.
