I’m not going to write about this. Or that. That thing we did, not that. Or this trip we took over there, yeah, this one, the one all the way over that way. Yes, that one. No, I’m thinking it’s best not to write about this this this or damn this or this one or this motherfucker bent over and did what? Not not going to write about that. You asked me to write about that, or reminded me this would make a great thing to write about, yes this, you said you never lived through that before, so this would make a great, yeah, yeah, that one that whole thing that time the one yeah this one too. I mean, you said this story was just too good, yeah that one, this time it has to end up in print. Poem, story, you should write this up in an article you said, but you know this this this this this all this this this this was not made to be written about. This once written would be something totally different and you know the world doesn’t take kindly to this or this or this. It’s so exotic, so amazing, so cliché goddamnit, I mean really do you really need me to write about this or this or this. Like that wasn’t enough, like all that out there in the papers isn’t enough to tell you all you never really cared to know about that anyone. What? You care about all the trival this and that, bric a brac being told out there? Really? Well, I hate to say this, hate to be repetitive, but no matter how many times you remind me or suggest this to me, I am not going to write about all this that we just lived through this and this and that and oh yeah that, no for real this or that, none of it because we lived through all that. Together.

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