Thursday, September 4

My bathtub is full of debris, standing on four feet. I open the tap and do not realise that my bathtub is full of debris. The bathtub is shrinking like wax, very small and now transparent. Next thing, I fall in love with a man with two children 'I have two children', he has a moustache 'I have a moustache', he holds me for a while and then has to go 'I have to go'. He returns and 'Here is a t-shirt' as a gift and a list of the best Lebanese restaurants in the area. My dad opens the door and I say we met in an international, interdisciplinary conference.

Who am I going to complain now about my tooth 1,2,33,4,5,6,7,8,9,29, that is broken again? My dentist is DEAD DEAD. He died under the most horrid circumstances, he was illed while trying to fix a 1,2,3,4,5,6,7,8,9,29 broken tooth.

Underneath of me there is a pool of shit, no, no, underneath of me, there is a pool of shit, no, no, underneath of me there is a pool of shit, no, no, underneath of me, there is a pool of shit, I envision you struggling to come out. Taking too long to come out of the coffee shop toilet. And then, I turn round and I see you. You are standing with the familiar pose, one hip slightly leaning. You are talking about cultural imperialism, or something, to a woman, I do not know. What if she is funnier than me? What if she entertains you more than I would do? What if, she will take you by the hand and make you laugh more than I do? What if she falls in love with you and you fall in love with her and you both talk about cultural imperialism underneath the candlelight. What if she proposes to you and you accept and you go to Santorini for your honeymoon and you fracture your toe and they take you to the hospital and while you wait for the doctor you overhear a conversation about cultural imperialism and your doctor has written a book on cultural imperialism and your wife refuses to have children unless you talk to her about cultural imperialism and your uncles and aunties open a trust fund so that they can fund your operation, so that you can keep talking about cultural imperialism. And what if in your first meeting with your publisher about your book Cultural Imperialism and other tragic stories, you meet me again, and you remember how much you loved me, before you met that other woman, in the coffee shop, on your way to the toilet. 

You write to me and sniff your nose and wipe it all around and up and down. Is it because you wan to say 60%, or or 60%, or 60% or or 60% or 60, 60, 60 % ?



I am dripping in my pants. You are HOT HOT and I want you now. Your tie, hot hot hot, always does the trick. If you come, hot, on a Friday evening, hot, hot, I will wear my hills and smell of nutmeg, hot, and vanilla. I will ask my students, not so hot, to do some task, hot, so that I can think of you. You will be lost in the maze, hot hot hot, of this place, hot, but will eventually find it. It will be hot, the right kind of hot, and you will hot, and hot the other way, perhaps a hot of shyness. I know this is not hot, you always find the hot hot, but it's ok. I am not hot, or hot, or hot hot. In your hot I find hot, but it made me hot to you, so Ho hot and hot and hot hot hot and hot and hot. Hot hot hot hot hot hot hot.    


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