Sometimes, I want to beat you over the head with a hobo.

                                Or those ridiculous kiosk ladies at the mall.

                                                          ­      Eighteen times.

Sometimes, I want to stuff you into a bottle and watch you ferment in failure for a while.

                                Until the scent of success is gone from you,

                                And you no longer have girls pawing at your throat like the K-9 Unit, hot on the trail of bombs or drugs

                                Or at least until I have an idea of whether I’d really want to see you like that,

                                And trust me,

                                                If I saw you more often,

                                                         ­                       I’d try all of these things,

I’d take your biggest fears and sprinkle your mashed potatoes with them, and serve me up on a silver platter, ‘cause I know I’m the last thing you’d ever want, and seeing you get the wrong order for once would do wonders for my digestion.

                                But I never see you long enough to cook dinner anymore,

                                                And you’d prefer sprinkling airplane food with lighter conversation anyways

                                For reasons only I know



Remember the conversation we had a couple weeks ago?

-          The one that made me realize that I hate the idea of free samples and dates, because all guys seem to want these days is a Big Mac; heavy on the petting and light on commitment-

I quoted Shakespeare, for crying out loud!  And you-

You just sat there, and it was there in your car that I realized you prefer your “I love you’s” medium-rare; I don’t think you understand how raw I am despite that fact, or the conversation wouldn’t have grown cold and mushy like it did.  Picking at it with our forks until the meat went dry, I almost wish you had kissed me an 18th time, because-

                                I had leftovers yesterday, love.

                                I spooned him up on the couch, and we let our lips brush like melted butter 18 times as we spoke to each other, and we didn’t want to stop talking, because then we’d have to accept that we were kissing on purpose.

                                Oh, how I wish I’d quoted Shakespeare to him then! Because

                                Eventually, the words stopped coming, but our lips were still moving, and we had to accept that our kisses were stale and crusty, we choked on our re-heated passion.

                                Don’t be mad yet, love.

                                                It might be slightly comforting to know that this time he undid my necklace instead of a bra strap, and I felt protected in his arms, like I’d never suffer from food poisoning again, but I feel you’ll be mad, anyway; but you shouldn’t know for sure if my words make you angry yet.

                                Oh…

I wish I’d told you my biggest fear as you were explaining your own a couple weeks ago.

                                I heard once, that you have to try something 18 times before you really know how you like it, and I know all this probably doesn’t taste like chicken, so before I get too far ahead of myself, go on a love binge, swallow this whole 17 more times-

                                                         ­                                       And get back to me.