I’m allergic to nostalgia. So I won’t blather on about how I miss my doggy, Serena, and I won’t self-indulge today about my parents’ failings (although, I am quite fond of self-indulgence), and I won’t prattle on about what an asshole time is to steal away our innocent youth, and I won’t quote Kierkegaard in a Saturday morning essay about the fragile senility of our universal suffering at the hands of existence and nonexistence, and I won’t randomly bring up the laughs and orgasms of my daily methodology.
Instead, I have alluded to such, and now I can slink away to my exercise den for a daily round of weightlifting and a treadmill 5k, and maybe some yoga if the mood arises, and I will feel less burdened by the constraints of nostalgic pistons, as I wish you a merry Saturday chockablock with patty hats and unsober shenanigans, orgasmic delights, and chocolate chip serenades.
I love you, my lovers.
Contrary to popular belief, I was once a child
dougable 