The Contents Of My Room. Romanticized. Oreo's: You are like the sweetest desert which follows the finest of meals. Except you are delicate and wee. Kind of like a pixie sandwich, except instead of blood you are full of that white stuff. Delicious! 18 year old baseball: You are my childhood, my innocence, the very avatar of my halcyon days when summer was eternal and the weight of the world had yet to fetter me to the grindstone of adulthood. I sure looked fat in that uniform though. Television: You, my cathode friend, are the best of us all. Your warm glow caresses my face like the first days of the spring sun. You give so much and yet expect nothing in return other than realizing that Hot Pockets now come in philly cheese-steak. Will you marry me? Liquor: Are you trying to take advantage of me? Guitar: For over a decade you have been a sonic solace. A creative outlet through which I can express that which is inexpressible through even the weightiest of words. I totally blame you for making me sound like shit. Bed: Each night we renew our torrid love affair with ever increasing heights of gusto. Yet each morning you spurn me. Turn away with a sneer and send me off once again into the cruel world. I'm leaving you for the television.
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