Getting back on the horse literary style or I've been warned in advance that people enjoy funny

#1

I wrote a long note to you that included some choice words about goats but only in the margins. I tore it into a thousand pieces. I'm not lying. I counted. I put them on the hearth, which was cold, numbingly so, and I ate them one by one. You'll be surprised to learn that l's taste best, they have the distinct flavor of ice tea, and bring to mind screen porches and old apple trees, this despite the dearth of l's in a words like screen and porches. Up until this point in my life I had always thought that I was in love with e. It is strange, is it not, how wrong we can still be about ourselves.

#2

Remember that time we were in that little cafe on the corner of 23rd and Whittier. Me neither. In fact, in staring at a map of the surrounding area that we used to frequent I can see that 23rd and Whittier don't even intersect. A fact which casts a great pall of doubt in my mind about whether I had something candy cane flavored that day or not. I suppose it could cast the whole day into a sort of shadow, could it not? None of these details are important though. The existence of street corners or little black baskets made of brass that held pink pansies. I remember that we were arguing about the integrity of the ending of something. I was hell bent on convincing you that it was not only aesthetically pleasing, but artistically moral, (the two don't always go hand in hand) if the main character died. It was raining by this point in time, and I remember your right hand was on top of your head because the wind was high, and you didn't want to lose your hat. I can see that I was wrong now, about any number of things.

#3

We were reading to each other in bed, even though we didn't have the slightest interest in one another, think Dante and levels of hell, when suddenly, it occurred to me that the two of us could amend the many differences we'd been discussing by changing the proximity of our bodies. I don't remember the angle of the sun changing at all. From up close, I could see that there was something amiss with your right eye, an asymmetry, and not of the pleasing sort. And the whole time we were in situ I kept thinking about that imperfection, trying to rationalize my way into believing that it was a beauty mark. I thought of a mother explaining a birth mark to her child, that it was just a more unique thing to love about them. I don't know whether it is unfortunate that parents lie to their children or whether it is unfortunate that the world lies to children about things their parents have told them. Either way, the sex was terrible.