I got rid of my bed-head with my brush and checked my phone. Glade had sent me a message over something. I began to answer him and then thought better...of my verbiage.“What we have here is a failure to communicate,” I said to myself. Then it hit me! Cool Hand Luke!I messaged my lover back and called the bitch in the mirror a slutty whore. I knew exactly what I was going to do and exactly what I was going to wear. I pulled out my “work in the yard” shorts. They are old, torn, faded denim cutoffs. All of my focus on saving her, Amélie's natural beauty, my love for her, and my situation had made her the center of my masterbatory and romantic fantasies and dreams lately, and so I went to the den and started a fire and found myself falling into a Corinthian leather reclining chair, a deep sigh leaving my lips as I heard Amélie scuttle off to her bedroom. I must have looked like I felt, a mess, she was right. I'd been practically starving myself and overtaxing myself, working almost all. More

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