Friday, 9 November 2012

Dear J:

Over here it's raining like hell, and you know, I just can't go away and put whisky inside the mangoes and wait and see how the monkeys fall asleep, all drunk, and then take those pictures you are asking me for. I just can't do that. I can't involve myself in your wicked plan. I prefer spoiling myself with some soft drugs and meeting with you by skype. Maybe we could play. I know we both are over the obscene-manic-obsession. How do you say it? Post-porn, right? I really love Skype. Is the best family-planning ever. You know what I mean: quick freeze. Cleenex. He! All thaaaat shit. I'm hooked, friend. Blame me, blame me because I'm pull aside all the feelings instead of try to fit everything in (in my life?). How can I call "life" what I'm doing. I'm displaced and... are you fucking kidding me? Are you asking me: María, put whisky inside the mangoes because I really want to see the monkeys getting drunk in your African garden? Really?

Don't let me do that.

I mean. Ask me for sex.

Ask me, "How are you?".

Try me out of the dotted lines, the dead lines, the whate-v-e-r, but try me out.

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