Flux

I am not doing this again.
I am not doing this again, she said to me as I polished her shoes with hypocrisy, bathed her in modesty, in hopes of changing her idiocracy. You see, as Robert Plant once sang of being dazed and confused, she, so consumed with the juxtaposition of ostentatious tableaus, inadvertently blocked her ears with the sugar canes in her left pocket. She struck me as a second-rate version of a one-hit wonder, her nose hairs shook to the sound of electronic b e a t s. She was small, she was big. I often bit into an orange to ensure that my life was not heading towards acidic damnation but she insisted on juicing them and making tiramisu. She cooked often, I remember, as the temperature of the oven reminded her of her exboyfriend's tactile tendencies. It never bothered me that she ate from the same box of crayons, I loved magenta, she lit herself on fire. Crayola-esque embarkments, how I remember you so! At the peak of our existence we contemplated inexistance but assured ourselves that tomorrow is yesterday. I ate her clock, she popped my soul. It all changed the day she hopped on a van to what seemed at the time, a naughty Utopia. She cried on her Dogs and retorted that God was a cross-dressing degenerate! Her van broke down and searched for a buddhist companion, fortunately for him, a monk had just sold his Ferrari.
I ate myself to sleep when she sold her soul to machinery. I questioned my condiments and demanded absolution. I stood, I sat, I met a piece of furniture who finally said to me "Lie down already, you needn't wait for..."

Interruption.

I was, at that moment, interrupted by the starry-eyed vehicular whore as she repeated the lines
"I am not doing this again"
I am not doing this again.