My regular face is a mix between Dexter on red bull and a scab that hasn’t healed properly.
They are worried it will be misconstrued as flirting and I will strip down and fling myself all across their unconsenting business and future.
They are worried it will be misconstrued as aggression and I will strip down and fling myself all across their bewildered shock and uncertain future.
They don’t realize that talking to my forehead makes me talk to my forehead as well, and this makes for a very awkward conversation as my forehead will likely shuffle off to play rummy with my left butt cheek while the both of us are left to warble vacantly at a sheet of wrinkle-free skin.
They were told the One Ring was crafted inside my pupil, but they don’t know which one and it’s too risky to bank on it being one of my students.
They think I will be alarmed and frantic-chirp at them once or twice before scurry-shuffling into the night like a woe-chased mallard.
They believe that myth about how I once melted a man’s face off with my glare. It’s totally a myth I never even whatever they were able to glue it back on so just relax.
I set them up for failure by refusing to look at them because the glare is ready and people are trifling and I don’t want to go to jail.
Intimacy is scary. What if someone sees just our impulse, just our basic reach, and we can’t make them unsee it, and now they know us forever. What if we look and can’t look away. What if our care becomes like our sight and we can’t uncare just like we can’t unsee. What if intimacy is a step past commitment in that the commitment is implied in the very feeling. What if intimacy unrequited hurts more than loss. What if we blink and it doesn’t go away. What if it does.
They are annoyed because I ate the last slice of pizza and do not feel badly about it.
Classical Sass 