Can you be a doctor without a doctorate? And can a doctor doctor a doctorate? I
wrestle with these enigmas every night before I wrestle with myself in a
soothing bout of autoerotic asphyxiation.
If a man wipes with his left hand and drives a clutch, does
that make him a shitty driver? These are
the questions that hold me tight, tighter than all the nipple clamps in my
shared utility drawer.
Does my shower want me to pee in it and if the answer is no
why does it have a drain at all? Eratosthenes, Plato, Socrates, Descartes, one
is a philosopher the others are names for my face towels.
Is there a god? Does he not want me to say his name in vain? Does he like it when I say his name during sex, like grimy art school bathroom sex probably between two guys that look like Ryan Gosling, maybe young Ryan Gosling from Blue Valentine and Ryan Gosling from Drive moments after he kills that guy with a hammer because damn that would be pretty hot. Thanks god.
When a women woo’s a man does that make him a wooed-man? What if his name is Hector Enchiridion, is he then a he-man and a dark lord of the nether realm? Clearly it’s not coincidence that all of these rhyme with seaman as most men long for the sea.
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