down in me

I’m a good writer.

No, really, I am. I can spell and use a spell-checker and construct a hefty sentence. I use words like ‘hefty’ in place of meaningful adjectives and you never notice. This is mostly because I am very lazy. I just can’t think long enough to produce a story with characters and situations that would fill all the pages of a novel. I definitely can’t see myself writing non-fiction. I mean, that would require hours of boring research. No, I have a talent for spraying words onto the screen and making them stick. I should stick to that, right?

I have a lovely bosom.

No, really, I do. Sometimes when I’m sitting alone thinking, I like to scrunch up really tightly, pull my knees to my chest and nuzzle my nose, mouth and chin between my breasts. I mean, presumably masturbation is entirely normal, right? So why shouldn’t one profess self-love in other ways? Is self-love like the love between lovers or is it meant to be more like familial love? Whatever. Who can resist soft, sweet-smelling, cozy, breathless moments? And why does someone else have to be there to witness them? I know. I’m telling you about it now, but that’s hardly the same.

I have a nice ass.

No, really, I do. I don’t go to the gym. I think it results from being so uptight all the time. Your body remembers the position after a while and years later you can’t remember what came first. Did stress cause the firm glutes and tight sphincter, or the other way around? Either way, if the result is an ass as nice as mine, I’m not worried. Worrying leads to forehead wrinkles and nobody wants that. They come into view before your ass does, after all.