why I'm thinking two weeks, maybe
so three months is about as long as i can go without getting properly laid, and I'm pleased to report you fuck like a rock star. That whole business where you can bang my parts nonstop for five hours without blowing your load is above-average impressive, and the way you're ready to go the minute you walk through the door practically makes me weep. I feel like the Goddess of your cock, and I suspect I'd write a dozen or so truly terrible poems about the experience, if you weren't so goddamn boring.
things go so well until you open your mouth. riddle me this, riddler: what would compel you to think a line by line recap of the latest episode of "Futurama" was an interesting topic of conversation? Why do I care about the gossip between two of your friends I've never met and probably never will, especially when I've only known you for five days? And you could at least feign interest in my various activities, instead of using them as a launching off point for a joke you heard once that involves reducing women to cliches about gas mileage and food stamps. By the time we got to a rerun of your "how i got my tattoo" story i was ready to smother you with my pillow.
it's okay to be boring. i'm fairly certain that i'm boring sometimes myself. but when i have nothing to say, i have the good sense to shut the fuck up so that the individual i'm spending time with can wonder what i'm thinking and consider me mysterious, thus allowing the pseudo-relationship to continue another two weeks. I can't even call you out of fear that I'll have to hear another story about how all animals love you, or about how your mom and dad raised you right, while you fail to notice you've rendered me catatonic and only recently so much as learned my last name. I've officially gone from wanting to fuck you till you scream like a girl to wanting to scream and throw things at you to get the hell out before i commit hare kare.
so when you date in the future, fuck more, talk less.
this is in or around PDX