Part 1: Throwaway almost-genius bullshit Part 2: My headza Part 3: Po 'em

THE RULES OF BLOGSVILLE STATE THAT ONE IDEA WOULD SUFFER IF TWO WERE POSTED ON THE SAME DAYA SEW...

Part 1: 

Love me as if I were already the person I would be if you loved me.

Part 2:

It's been 32 hours since I have last slepta. The anxiety I have been feeling over the financial ramifications  of being almost completely unemployed have caused massive disruptions to my sleep schedule. Oh also not having a job to go to has played its parta.

I woke up just past midnight Sunday morning and patiently read meaningless Guardian commentary (that the Guardian knows it is a bit left of the Times somehow makes it both almost more correct and certainly more insufferable) for hours upon hours, or, to be precise, from around midnight until 2pm, before heading to the shower and then to work. After my eleven hour shift, I tested the old rule I posted here a millennia ago (pragmatism is the valuation of the body above the soul) and took the opportunity to head to the fucking beach. This was the first time I had gone to a beach in Rhode Island since I have moved here; I have actually gone to the beach in New York more times than I have gone to the beach in Rhode Island and all of the times I have gone to the beach in New York have occurred since leaving New York.

I think I like the world more when I am suffering from sleep deprivation. I am more the person I could be if I could be. 

Part 3:

My knees are bleeding and my feet are purple and black and I feel no pain.

The wounds of submerged rocks mark upon me a testament to the boundaries that prove my own existence, 

(as a feminist, I reject all notions of male entitlement,)

and yet the silence; 

of you removing your trousers against the silhouette of a cloudy sky not yet awoken to its radiant blue role of scenery, 

set against rocks so perfect they could almost be fake, of the 

little patches of redness

set against the creases of skin that could only be and will always be yours…

like those rocks

the boundaries imposed only prove that there is a body to set against them, a mind capable of overcoming them

I'll never kiss you. By (who's) design: immaterial.

I'm not in love, not even in lust, not even suffering, in any way, from the impossibility of a future I have never desired (and may never desire).

That there is a future not to be had, that the redness of your skin will never prove the result of my action, only shows: there is another future.

There is another life.

There are other beaches.

There are other trousers.