Let's make Rifles.

she had a very aggressive look about her.
her freckles looked angry,
her black vinyl jacket glared blackly,
even her ponytail bounced with malice.
while my hair perched on top of my head, like some frightened animal.

we ordered japanese foods that had names like dinosaurs.

she spent $5o,000 on her lovely new necklace from Vulgari.
i dream of supermarkets, mainly.
some things just naturally go together, like violin crescendo's and chloroform.

her vagina tasted like peaches and passionfruit yoghurt.
the sequins on her bra flashed under the lights, like her breasts were communicating via morse code.
"let us out".
the way she placed pieces of fruit in her mouth was possibly the most beautiful thing i had ever seen.

people keep telling me i look tired, but it's just my face.
while she's sitting there grimacing like farrah fawcett at a photo shoot.
"you smell like airplane food."
the decline of the masculine empire.

her mother used to make her go down on her when she was seven.
kind of like 'getting foedipus', if you will.
polarised to the prevailing stimuli.
her interests: gardening, porn, complaining.

we were in a room full of young graphic designers, all hungry and eager to get out and start raping the world.
still, if it wasn't for chaos, there'd be no such thing as a good cook, would there?
she loved to cook, and did it for us every night.
mainly so she had an excuse to walk around inside with a big knife.

it reminds me that plato was very upset his first love of cooking was often overlooked by historians.

"i loved her, but she broke my art".