I’ll give you a pendulum to swing from.

When a girl really needs a motherfucking drink it’s when there is no beer in the refrigerator.
When the liquor cabinet is empty.
When the wine fridge is un-stocked.

Save for a fucking bottle of vermouth, and who the fuck likes that?

Granted, timing has never been a good friend of mine. You’d think that after a history of having an estranged relationship with something that may not even exist, you would be comfortable with it because you’d know what it does. Or rather, does not do.

This is in fact, not how it works.

Timing is a whore of a child birthed in a fish alley. Putrid, amongst the decay.

Something overlooked, but creating the stench that permeates and clings.
Something that exists long after the moment occurred.
A reminder.

Yes, time is a whore.
Working for free.

I’ve always preferred side 2.

It’s funny how I’m called sexy in the dark.

Funnier still being called cute in the light.

And only being called precious when ice cream is involved.

A lot of the time I wonder why I care for words at all, let alone in multiple languages.

They aren’t really accurate…

Which leads me to question truth.

And they wonder why I don’t accept flattery.