It was the night before christmas

frontal nudity is the summons to a pavlovian response that means nothing to you, and you jump up in an utter reliance that some sort of human and animal impulse will kick in and the genetic imperative will make you a member of some group, any group, therefore validating all the choices that you knew were wrong and absurd and very vapid and shallow. you perk up because you feel you have to and you mingle saliva with this person you don't care for, and what seems to be affection quickly dissipates into sweat, bad breath and regret. the windows make themselves into pools of potential suicide as you pretend that you will want to see the other body again and you just let yourself go to this place that brings sleep, and sleep betrays you and laughs at your nightmares. there is nothing that can make this rational, or even bareable. and it goes on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on