How I Learned To Stop Reading The Tom

They have bits that fit together. Some call it destiny, others call it genetics. I call it fun. They have fingers that interlock over great distances. Fingers that disappear and shake. But particular hassles and reluctant turtles do not a happy couple make. And I should know; I saw two people kissing on a train. Seems like a rather unsavoury pastime to me. And there's too much oil and grease for it to be sweet. Stick with the bits, I say. Stick with Heaven's template for recreation. But don't spill a drop.

They say it leads to heartache and cigarettes, but I know that's a crock. The stalk leads to heartache and smoking leads to cigarettes, not the other way round. You can't believe everything they say. Especially if you know they're lying. But that's neither clear nor fair. Too much of it, you see, is wasted. Whether it be in rolls of toilet paper or on someone's toes. There's really only one place for it. If the bits fit, don't fix it.

My studies led me to believe that the most sacred act in our play was that of the embrace. But after hugging several strangers and a few pillows, I began to realise that I really wanted somewhere to stick my bits. Preferably somewhere willing. Meanwhile time around me was running out. There were only so much years before my ne'er-do-wells eroded into a clutch of wrinkled flesh, ne'er to be seen again. And I wanted to close the deal long before then.

I failed, of course. Now I spend my time vicariously prying into these two's lives, waiting to see if either of them befall that which befell me. I put my money on him, because, as they say, you have to learn how to sink before you can swim. Call it philanthropic justice, if you will. But if you do, make sure you explain it to me.