O Henry

"Doh! Why'd I buy that pink polo?!? BLACK shirts, Henry, BLACK...god dammit..."


Meet my boyfriend, Henry. He's 45, in great shape, fairly intelligent, and hails from our

nation's capital. We share a love of the East Coast, far-left leaning idealogy, and anger. However, we're fighting right now because he says he "yearns to be the next Mark Twain." Jesus, Henry why can't you just fucking grow up and quit talking about yourself for two seconds? All you do is yap yap yap about how infuriated you are about this, how enraged about that. You're constantly warning everyone about your "issues" with being told what to do. However, you love nothing more than to jump on stage and let the diarrhea flow from your mouth for approval from a bunch of 20-something pizza-delivery guys--sometimes I'm wondering if the fire doors are locked in the stadium and your "captive audience" is less captivated by your "spoken word" than true bolts and chains on the doors, hmm?

What's Henry say?

"It's not what I do as much as it's what I DON'T do. I don't have kids or much in the way of relationships with people. I do a lot of work and that's pretty much all I do. It's perhaps not the best way to get through life but it's working for me at the present. So, basically, I have no life. Besides the work, I am not interesting."

I'll say! We never TALK anymore...you don't even want to sleep together!

Oh that's right...I forgot.

"Stop telling everyone that! I can't even get the dog to look at me!"

Come home soon, sweetie!