A grown man maces a 15 year old girl at the latest rally for the scapegoat de jour, and I am at home wallowing in the depravity of the nation, in between paragraphs of an essay about Barbados. The sweet vapor of mortality has been filling my room, choking me in my sleep. I dream of lyric essay, white space, and grad school, and yet I still can’t help but be stirred awake by the hope that maybe this year I will actually get laid on my birthday. I have been daydreaming of the mind blowing sex I had when I was younger. When I was prettier. When I was more agile. I reminisce of long hot nights, how we would hate ourselves so hard against each other, trying to hide inside each others bodies. I remember [NAME REMOVED] and her garage, and how our sex seemed like we choreographing for the big show, and how excited we would get at inventing new moves. I think of [NAME REMOVED], and how our eye contact was more sexy and intimate than the gyrating of our heroin filled limbs and groins. I think of the countless and the nameless that prostrated themselves before my malicious teenage narcotic fueled cock in hopes of being penned in right alongside me in the tomes of the immortal. And how could I forget the drunken stumbling of endless drunken nights of giggling and cum and blood. I think of all of this and just pray that someone will allow me to trace the curves of their naked body with my finger, with my tongue, before I spill my self into them, only to go back to this blinking cursor—the only true lover I have ever known.