Confessions of a Fuck-Up Artist

Baby, what can I say? Everything they whisper about me is true. I love you the way a sex columnist loves a bad date, when everything is definitely not OK Cupid and the profile pix never matches the face. I love you the way an editor loves a plump little typo embedded in a wall of heartbreak prose, circling it with a red pen the way a bomber circles the battlefield before dropping its load. I love you the way a drunk loves when the bartender finally bellows last call, the doubling down on the shots and the last gamble rolled against going home alone. I love you the way a young writer loves courage and an old writer loves endurance even if they're just dancing around saying how much they really love beauty. I love you because your pussy is a jail break tunnel into a better world against whose depths (or deaths) all other satisfactions would be measured. I love you because you can see invisible creatures like me, even through the haze of better, if not dwindling, possibilities. I love you because I have an open tab in your bedroom, in your kitchen, in the corner where your roommate isn't looking. I love you, even when you forget my name in the dark and make me wear instead the mask of another, one as distant as they are impossible. I love you, even if you'll never forgive me for saying so.

The Continuing Crisis:

A Quick Note to my LJ Friends:

So, I don't want to seem rude but for whatever reason Live Journal frequently of late doesn't seem to let me respond to or even access the comments I receive on my posts. In fact I'm writing this in my Dreamwidth account so you can read this. But I really just want everybody to know I do in fact appreciate and respect their feedback.
Thanks,
-JB