…that guy.

I am earring hunting again.  I shouldn’t be, but I hate their games.  I find one in the sill in the way back corner where I assume all women who lay in my bed look and place earrings.  I feel marked by scent when I see it.  I imagine a miniature hill of shinning skulls.  I will replace it with a different one, one with a larger stone.  No, wait, I will put a pearl earring there.  That will cause real anger, a pearl.  Hell yeah!  Right now I have a  small sock, a compact, four earrings, and I guess nothing says “I am fucking him too” like an earring on a window sill, a tiny black wife-beater/sports-bra, two phone numbers with lipstick and curvy writing and a mug that has not been drank from in like a month with lipstick on it.  I put lipstick on and kiss a different mug then wipe the other clean because yes, they leave lipstick here too.  I put the wife-beater in with my work out stuff so it gets an “other person” sweaty smell, I keep the earrings out of circulation for two weeks, and the sock I ignore like it is invisible but leave it where it can be seen as I found it, in the drawer with my boxers right on top.  I put the compact in my medicine cabinet like it’s mine.  The phone numbers I load in my phone with the names switched so that I can be…


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