The Other Woman | Chapter Three

Last night. What happened last night? Old Monk smokes and sex happened. Sex with the whore happened. Heh.

Drinks and sex go like rhythm and music together. Brain damage has happened. Ughh… these hazy frequencies of thought.

She is probably asleep. Asleep from the flash of vanilla stars and twinkling sparks I gave her in that state of bliss. They don’t call it slow death for nothing.

There is a world I live in; a world inside my head. A pandemoniac world buzzing with thoughts inside my mind. A cavity where it is perfectly normal to experience epiphanies amidst the chaotic mood swings.

I believe I have successfully managed to make her my whore. My modest demi-mondaine. I guess she wants to play with danger. Cut through the red tape. I believe she wants to be my saviour. My moonlight by the night.

A conversation at the bar and exchange of digits later, the next thing I know is I was dancing my way into her pants. How could she not understand? This illusion of attachment is such a delusional beauty. She sees the man who isn’t there. A man who never was there. Or maybe I played my part well, I mean, how else can I tell her that I was always only interested in her vayjayjay?

Two months since I have been putting on this marshmallow-but devious at time mask, and it works, just like a witch’s portion. My theory and her reality are poles apart.

And I wouldn't let anyone disrupt my hatred for the scheme of relationships and thoughts.