A Script for Piggin’ It…

toaster- phonics

My writing is algorithmic, this entry is that of a pig postulating prophetically sans the flash-cards and cattle prods that women feel obligated to keep in their evening clutch_bag. I might have to say that I have been on both-sides of the p. pen. So brace yourself this is urban infused kitsch with the whim of the Intelligentsia and sans the naughty French-cuff. The red bow-tie is optional…

Dear Diary,

ON DATING: In California I was looking for that sweet committal-friendly Mission dudette that was 24th St. (cool) & Valencia St.  fine. The kind that would have $2.00 Hamms or PBR’s and a shot from the well but still knew the right nights to hit the MOMA. The chicks that travel’d in these circles weren’t of that committal hip stock to keep by your side, if can you dig it.  Those were the kind I’d call the whimsically unavailable, the others were aloof and kinda sickly in…

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