At what point is infidelity infantile?
At what point do we just do it to do it in ways in which the other who’s really supposed to be the one but I mean other in that you are not me but only a small extension of me like a prosthetic arm or leg that fits over top of healthy happy regular flesh covered arm and leg?
At what point does it all merge and mingle and become a modern day roman coliseum of us together but apart a relationship oracule of mass entertainment, we sit, they sit, the others who we choose who we keep around “bread crumb throwing” as you’d say, at what point does it become mass entertainment? Or, at the very least entertainment in and of or in and above ourselves our each otherness?
Maybe it’s boredom, maybe it’s insecurity, maybe we’re just essentially two beings that when we get together we have in inordinate and unmatched ability to make each other feel like shit…

Maybe we’re just tearing each other up into little pieces, little morsels of food, and maybe the others, maybe all the emails and all the chat sessions and all the websites are the means, the instruments in the breaking apart and up and shredding of everything we could’ve been.

Maybe we’re each taking these morsels of each other, placing them peaking out of our molars, knowing they’re there, kinda sticky and stuck in between teeth.
Or, maybe we’re just bored. Maybe it’s the eating corn chips and drinking beer and watching random episodes together, random porn apart.

I feel nothing.

I feel pissed.

Nothing nothing nothing pissed pissed pissed.

The slew and containment and confinement of emotions make me necessarily inaudible. And that pisses me off more than all the freakin causes of pissiness. Frankly.