Because I Am An Inhuman Monster, I

And So As Much As I Can, I Care About Her, Dear Deborah. It's Probably Not Love, But I Would Rather She Were Happy.

It Was Clear To Me That It Wouldn't Matter What I Did - They Would Never Truly Appreciate Me Or Learn What I Had To Offer. They Were Far Beyond Fickle - They Were Insensible, Like Kittens,predatory Little Things, Distracted By The First Bit Of String Or Shiny Bauble That Rolled Across The Floor, And Nothing I Could Ever Say Or Do Could Possibly Make Any Kind Of Dent In Their Willful Ignorance.

It's That Moon Again, Slung So Fat And Low In The Tropical Night, Calling Out Across A Curdled Sky And Into The Quivering Ears Of That Dear Old Voice In The Shadows, The Dark Passenger, Nestled Snug In The Backseat Of The Dodge K-car Of Dexter's Hypothetical Soul. That Rascal Moon, That Loudmouthed Leering Lucifer, Calling Down Across The Empty Sky To The Dark Hearts Of The Night Monsters Below, Calling Them Away To Their Joyful Playgrounds.

It’s An Odd Term, 'girlfriend,' Particularly For Grown Persons. And In Practice It Provides An Even Odder Concept. Generally Speaking, In Adults It Described A Woman, Not A Girl, Who Was Willing To Provide Sex, Not Friendship. In Fact, From What I Had Observed It Was Quite Possible For One To Actively Dislike One’s Girlfriend, Although Of Course True Hatred Is Reserved For Marriage.

And Here I Always Thought Morality Was Useless.