Nauseating child.

There's only one that I truly despise, a little worm of a child, a sly one whose friends despise her also. She'll never be pretty in any way, nor beautiful; she is a vile person, self-seeking, hypochondriac, martyrdom-bound, horrific. Her jaw overpronates, her hair is frequently lank and greasy, her cheeks are spattered with eczema and she irks me awfully. She insisted on showing me her awful poetry once I took the vaguest interest. I despise people who are too open, who want to share it all straight away, get you on their side etcetera.

I don't know why I wrote that.

I would like to tell you lots of things, my women. You aren't mine, of course (never are), but I would like you to know the beautiful things about yourselves, because sometimes I think that you aren't sure. That you have set off this feeling without intending to, that you are amazing articles of personhood, ah. I don't know.

When I think of JF I think of her putting her head on my shoulder and sighing, because she sighs frequently over people not grasping linguistic structures and being generally irksome. I sigh in return, because sometimes I do too. I think of her hands, with their neat shining fingernails, relaxing slowly into my back. I think of my arm linking over her shoulder, and the other finding the midsection of her back, where all the tension collects and rubbing it away.