Blue Shirt Blues

Today has been unmade. It started with great plans. In my top-most drawer is a letter to Jenna. I have tried so hard for the pron addiction. God knows I have tried. I have watched 10 thousand hours of pron this month alone but it does not haunt me like it should. It is like a good friend who does not take but only gives and that is not addiction, no. That is friendship. Addiction should take more than it gives.

I believe it was the shirt. It was the shirt that fucked me, it must be said. There is no breast pocket. Where shall I keep my things? What am I without a breast pocket? I look down every four minutes but they never show up. They are gone. And no, it's not inside out. No, it's not.

Then I saw the woman who was going to outsource me--rightsource, rightsource, rightsource. She was immediately spottable. Hair nicely done, business suit polished, small suitcase trailing behind her. She was lovely but I recognized her as an axe immediately.

I made a note to seduce her and tried to put the note in the pocket of my left front breast and it fell to the ground.

I think the security guard saw me. I'm pretty sure she judged me. She's old and will die soon, but that doesn't help as much as you'd think.

All is undone.