If a cow ever got the chance...

You'd be wrong (or stupid, or naive) to think this hasn't been a marriage. Or that it isn't ending.

The "do-you-like-to-peel-off-the-bandaid-fast-or-slow" thing has been done to death, just like the Great Soda Versus Pop Controversy of first semester freshman year, but I have this to say: imagine peeling a band-aid for SEVEN FUCKING YEARS.

I'm pretty drunk. Am impressed that I still remember the password for this thing.

Must sleep.

Why is it that I can then walk thirty blocks to meet you with the hair above my left ear dried spiky and so much of his DNA on my skin that I could either clone him or charge him with something, and that I can tell you about this in great detail and know that you still love me and that what you care about most is that I had a good time--how can I know all of this and still become so crazy when you do the same?

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