As I write this, she's spurting around the room in ejaculations of anticipation. Milky anticipation. And of course she's completely ignoring my attempts to gain sympathy. I've even been crying. It's hard liking someone you can't see, and the idiot says a date is a practical impossibility at the moment. She really is the most...fuck no, she still wears that Tommy Girl piss? I should assert my tastes a bit more forcefully I think. It is PISS.
And I know the red lipstick will make her look like she's been assaulted. Slotted one in the mouth.
So milk with porridge for breakfast with apples and blueberrys and a scalding tongue, then Milk at the Odeon this afternoon (another lone cinema trip and almost a quiet blub), and now Valentines Milkbar. An abundance of the white stuff. Hm. Cheese is essentially milk, just harder, and so the imminent cheese omlette is also coherent with the theme. This brightens me up a bit.
MilkmilkmilkmilkmilkmilkstartstosoundfunnyifyousayitoverandoverandoverandI'veneverrealisedbeforehowdifficultitistotrainyourselftowrite without spaces,
Yours moderately miserably,
Consette x
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