Pc

by Christos Polydorou

I was not really dating anyone for a long time, and then I started going out on dates. Those were nice. I enjoyed the destinations, the shyness, the subtle changes imposed upon my difficult self. But it was all a ruse. Next thing I knew I was in a room with a dude on his pc asking me what movie I would like to watch on Netflix, with so much urgency in his voice he might as well been holding an American gun to my head. After I came out of that six month relationship with Netflix and my ex, I have not really dated anybody else, since the people I was interested in were ego-maniacal jackasses one all nighter away from marrying their laptop. This is love? I wonder now with a new pc of my own. I cannot lie: I see it as it sees me, an instrument of pleasure and torture, of information and creativity, which is lovely. However, I cannot see myself marrying it, nor would I ever be mad enough to choose it over the kisses I could be giving you all over your downy lips and harsh mouth. Even now, as I am completing this paragraph, I would much rather find myself in your arms whispering sweet nothings in my ear. It must just be that time of the day, I suppose, when hormones swell, or something. Explaining it helps. Putting it in words. But the future remains, a question.

 

 

 

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