there are sometimes other fragments to be considered; on a scale of 20 is 10 good enough?
I hate looking at my weight knowing I’m outnumbered by the calories in a clear Western showdown or epic engagement
but there are other numbers; on the scale of 20 can you get a 21?
To be rated has its miseries and benefits like when you marry for money and realize that she talks too much about crap you care not for
because to you all the cutlery in the house looks fine and you don’t need a new set; he wants his resort vacation you prefer hiking which makes him cringe
like some talented mythbuster you tell me that I make good love; I know you were not enjoying it; you scaled it as a so-so
don’t worry I was not very interested probably because the medication interfered and so did my other interests
watching a film only disturbs us because we seem satiated by simulacra; I want to punch you for the pity sex
I want to tell you that I am serious but when we do “it” the serious becomes a half-commitment
I don’t wanna pester you but can we breakup?
it’s not good enough to simply stay away but it’s ok because I know the some person is rating me on biases
in an interview I get too nervous that I can hardly speak my vernacular and this means wannabe?
look I probably speak a second language better but look at me, my life, then you’ll — ok, I don’t get the job.
I probably should becomes a traveler but then I’ll be called exotic
my heart is a wet pulp of aesthetical precision. God does this well. But I have an ache not biological; it’s the ache if something shattered.
I think it’s my feeling of incompetence coming up.
So, prodded and pulled like a slab of meat in a butcher’s market I see that no one would buy me until I become scale-pro.