So this nice, hot guy that promised to call did in fact do so, and somehow I even managed to get him to cook me this absolutely delicious meal. Beautiful, but almost sublime. Really.
Apparently, according to him, I talk about sex a lot; I seemed to have some habit of mentioning or pointing out that various objects were phallus substitutes (thank you arts degree, my brain will never be the same). In my defence, I tried to explain that me calling myself a poet is really just a socially acceptable way of saying I’m a big ol’ pervert. I’ve said this to quite a number of people before, too.
One could choose to write anything they want in this day and age…why poetry? There’s so much bad poetry in the world as it is, why do I feel the need to add to it?
When in doubt, blame it on Freud. Sigmund, you old perv, this is your fault!
