confession: i’m a pusher when i’ve been drinking. i don’t push alcohol, i push nudity. at home, i never wear clothes. clothes feel foreign on my body. nude feels best to me. i wish i didn’t push nudity onto others when they are clearly uncomfortable with it. i don’t want to be a pusher. i belong in australia. australians think nothing of nudity. in australia, i was never the first one to take off my clothes and run into the ocean or jump into a swimming pool during a party (or any other time). i’m a pusher of nudity at parties. i need to accept it, deal with it, and move to australia if i can’t restrain it.
confession: males between the ages of 25 and 45 elicit my maternal instincts. my heart opens to mother them. i want to take care of them and protect them from all the pain they’ve incurred and stored over their lifetimes. i reach out to comfort them. i hug on them. i love on them. i look into their eyes and beam them with the brightest light, reflecting theirs. almost every time they mistake my desire to comfort them for me wanting to fuck them.
confession: union phillips cherry–go to the liquor store and buy a bottle, stat. you won’t be disappointed. i took his bottle home with me to insure that i’d remember. he didn’t mind. sometimes boys like to give to me, share with me, and those boys win me over.
confession: most men under the age of 45 are boys to me. they are the ones i want to mother. the few that i perceive as men don’t need my comforting. those men comfort me.
confession: this town is full of everybody’s ex-girlfriends. i always recognize her face. i never remember her name. i see them everywhere.
confession: i’m not good at remembering names, even when i make it important.
confession: i wasn’t drunk, not like they thought. i was high on the scent of union phillips cherry and meeting new people i liked and the rain. but they thought i was drunk. i’m often misperceived in that manner.
confession: i love that i get high on love, joy, cloudy skies, moonlight, chocolate, and rain.