I don't like being touched.
If I have not invited you to touch me, you best not do it. I woke up with a sore neck this morning from being squeezed, turned, and "massaged" for basically the entire night. I'm kind to most people, and I probably even like you a little bit if I don't rip your face off for doing so, but please world take note: I don't like being touched.
Maybe it's because of weird childhood memories that fight through the barriers of thought to the surface. My dad used to stroke my nose to put me to sleep, adorable. It still works, and can be a really sweet romantic gesture that shows me that you not only listen to what I have to say, but you also wanna be my dad. Weird.
But when my father would poke my face, flick my lips, and raise my eyelids for me to wake me up! Catastrophe!
I hate being touched!!!!
And so, I fled the scene after too much touching, waiting, walking, and freezing through the streets of Paris. Although, touché Lolo you did move an entire party of 12 to the completely opposite side of town. That takes skill. My hat goes off to you. You will make a great politician one day with influence like that ;)
When I returned chez moi I rapidly resorted to what any single, rejected human being on a Saturday night at 2AM would do: Put on my pajamas, sans pants obviously; turned on some Archer; wrote a shitty poem (that no one will ever read) about loss and unrequited love; did some sexy texting that really wasn't sexy at all because who are you kidding, Danielle; and then stuffed my face with two bowls of spaghetti that I didn't have to share.
Okay, three bowls.
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| And then I did some-a this... |
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