Just do it, just touch the sweet beautiful beard of william shakespeare, as if nobody is around to notice, as if you do this thing every day. And once you do, I will make sure i report you to the police or the reception desk, as someone suspicious. Just do it, just press your fingertips along his beard, his moustache, his tight neckline.

I am a terrible fucking shit person. I am sending glances of hatred all over the place. I hate you. I hate you. I hate you and your power suit and your fringe and your long hair and your mobile phone and your english accent and your fucking necklace and your appropriateness. I hate you. Just go fuck yourself, you pretentious shit. I am all alone. and no one is coming back anytime soon.

I am packing. I am packing my socks in little boxes. I make two boxes. One for you and one for me. I know you are not coming back and so I just pretend. This box is for you. I am packing. I will call the man with the van, the only loyal person, this has been a four year relationship, once a year at least, we meet, business, goodbye, my healthiest affair. No weird stuff and stupid expectations. I am packing. You are not coming back, this box is for you.

I have been through this and through that, I have been through that and the other, that other thing. I have been through these all these all these things. I have been in a long a short and medium size love affair in a serious liaison a fleeting encounter. I have been through all of these un hurt un fucking hurt and honest. And i am still doubting still believing that this fucking thing will happen again that I will fall again into the trap. Did you know I am leaving? `Did you know that I will be alone again, ALONE once again and somehow forever? Did you know that no matter how long short mid size fleeting serious and fucked up affairs I have been in, I am still alone? I have no one to talk to, to spit, to fuck, to shit, to hope and love? No one to ask the most stupid of the questions, the most disgusting of things, you know what.

I dream there is a party in my new house and there is a problem with chairs. The chair I want to buy for my new big table is plastic, too inexpensive and not comfy at all, but it looks good. It looks better than good. It loos amazing. There is a baby in the house, my friend's baby girl and lots of gifts. She asks me whether we give presents in my hometown to each other and I lie. I lie blatantly in front of her face. I say no. I have two bedrooms. The one fits my bed and the other my wardrobe. I wonder which one you will pick to sleep in when you come by to visit. Then I wake up. And there are no chairs, no party, no birthday gifts or babies. Just the pathetic realisation that you are not there.

I am running towards you, dear. I want to be here, I want to stay. I want to stay and be here for now and for a little longer. I have ten fingertips and some flour; I will bake for you a loaf of bread for each day. Six days you will be gone and when you come back your little belly will poke. Because you allergic to love and yeast, it makes you bloat. I will mix the flour with the salt and kisses and make a wishing well in the middle and wish for you to find the Laistrygonians and the Cyclops the wild Poseidon on your way. On this big trip of yours. I will not wait. I will not weave and unweave every night. I will just write and read and cook little loafs of bread and swim from time to time. And one day, I will just see you again.

Do I? DO I? Do i hurt? Or is this just my selfish side not wanting to say goodbye, because goodbye is always about letting someone go and holding on to yourself, with perfect hair? My hair straightener is broken; my hair won't be perfect, so I do not want to say goodbye. DO I, do I, do I hurt, or is this just a fear of not doing it right, not having the shiniest haircut of all times in this painful goodbye? I am so scared this will be so hard, this will be harder than the time I had the perm, or the bowl cut or the bun. It will be harder than the time I had the dutch braid. Yes, yes, that's it, remember the dutch braid. This is how it will feel like. Like that time I had the dutch braid.

in my dream my ear was in pain. It was as if you had inserted your fingertip into my ear and it was stuck there for hours, like an earphone, like a little fingertip stuck within my ear. We stayed up late drinking gin. I can talk to you forever. I hoped the night would not finish just then. Just then, with the victory of samothrace, with the third glass of gin. With the story of Ithaca inside your eyes. We talked about this and that and that. And that was it. That was my last night with you in this city I loved so deeply and for so long. Now you are going. You will be gone for a while and I will miss you deeply and for long. I will see you again, I hope you will see me. I hope I will not turn into a pumpkin or a butterfly or even worse into a fingertip stuck inside my ear during the night, when I dream.

You just did it. You just did it. You took your clothes off and you dipped in. You dipped, you dipped, you skinny dipped. Although you are so skinny. I thought skinny people don't skinny dip. But you did. You took your clothes off and skinny dipped. Fuck that. Fuck commitment and all this shit. Just skinny dip, baby, just skinny dip. And fuck me and my feelings. Just do it, just go in there and skinny dip, with your other half or any other half you like. I will stay here, waiting for you. Like a big terrible idiot, whose idiocy traverses the waves and comes and finds you. Only to remind you that it's ok to skinny dip with someone else.

This dance is called: You hurt your back.

It's all about the time when you hurt your back and you were being such a pussy, a big, fat, smelly pussy, breaking up with me in the middle of the street, in the middle of this big, fat, smelly street, just because you hurt your back. Look out for the pelvis turning around. It describes you being a pussy. I request that the camera zooms into my pussy in this particular bit. It's likely that this dance will make you feel like a big, fat, smelly pussy.

(written in a Gob Squad workshop)

Under specific circumstances passion can grow fast, faster than parsley or courgette, faster than light. It can be forceful, persistent, and in some cases it might eventually win. The person in love cannot or will not think rationally, in a coherent or consistent manner. The person in love might even consider putting one's life in danger without hesitation. The person in love might consider killing, poisoning or shooting oneself in order to avoid disappointment. Why bother, the person in love will say, leading a life in which your beloved writes letters, makes the bed and cooks aubergine curry for someone else?

Why so much noise? Why all this effort, these outbursts, these worries and torture?

I love you, the person in love will say, because you have green eyes, because you cook well, because you know when to shut up, because you play scrabble with me, because you cycle miles to come and see me; because you never get to the point, because you always kiss my friends, because you don't mind when I buy you drinks - you don't feel threatened or intimidated or all that shit.

I love you, because you have the most amazing ass I have ever seen, because you get naked with every chance, because you don't mind when I am grumpy, or not shaved, or when I am overly emotional or not at all; or when I say, by mistake of course, that I love you.

It is always about your ass, you must know that by now. It is always about your beautiful tender ass, which comes and visits me from time to time. I know you are busy, I know you have your voluntary job, your paintings, but could you please, please let your ass come and visit? I will make tea and bake a cake, I will hoover the carpet and change the cat littler. Please, I will be good and polite and proper. Like you want me to be. Just let me see your ass for one last time.

Then we'll call it a day. I will write to you from time to time. You will receive my letters, you will contemplate writing back, but you will not. That's ok. I will think about you during the weekends.The rest of the days I will be good, polite and proper, like you wanted me to be. And I will hoover the carpet and change the cat littler, just in case.