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She tells the hurricane to wait. She's not ready for it yet. Little women written into the diaries of big girls. The franchise of happiness sells its two dollar colas at the concession stand of used condoms.

I've had all kinds of sex. The meaningless. The privileged and the kind that takes two flushes to get rid of. But the fact is, love comes in only two flavors. Bland or bitter. And all these wisdom's I've gained are worthless.

When I'm standing at that vending machine some call people. With nothing but a mangled dollar bill and a thirst they for something sweeter.

I tell myself I'm not the only one.

But somehow I know that I am.

I try to pretend there's not a dick in my mouth. Or at least, that I like the taste.

But I've failed again.