I find the smell of slightly over ripe strawberries to be rather erotic.
My summers of “sexual awakening” (I hate that phrase, but it only seems applicable for ages 10-13) were spent working six days each week from 5:30 a.m. until 3:00 p.m. picking strawberries for a farmer. I did not work alongside the migrant workers, they were professionals and segregated from us, but was alongside my peers and older teens. Summers were meant to be a fun time, and stuck in the fields for so much time out of our summers we interacted with one another as we would have were we having the “normal” summers of those not relegated to toiling in the fields for $1.50 per crate. As a result, I associate the smell of slightly over ripe strawberries with flirting and foreplay. But only foreplay, we were pretty tired out there.
I suppose one way to get out of your obligations to others is to harass the shit out of them until they give up and prefer to be homeless over listening to another onslaught of accusations and insults.
I suppose that’s one way to obtain a subsidy so you can sit around smoking, drinking, and enjoying a vehicle outside of your means.
As to the pretty girls who went past, from the day on which I had first known that their cheeks could be kissed, I had became curious about their souls. And the universe had appeared to me more interesting.
When you try to impose your Judeo-Christian ideas and values re death and life on me by calling the police, it inconveniences me and delays my access to tacos.
I decided for this birthday I would be 27. This 27 will be better than the last. Maybe I’ll be less weary and stop wondering what comes after this life.