I don’t know how you cunts do it.

In a way, you’re my life’s work, a puzzle I was built to ponder. I’ve spent years listening to you and analyzing your conflicted, constricted, and convoluted thoughts; you’re all such sad little knots, awaiting an Alexander to untangle you with the edge of a blade. I learn something new every time one of you comes apart for me.

But I’ll never truly, viscerally understand how you manage it, how you turn the sundering of your mystery and the exposition of your shame into abject, sobbing need. I suspect the answers will forever elude me.

Fortunately, a wet hole is its own special solace.