You can’t write. You start to write about the boy you wanted to kiss but didn’t. Then about the boy you used to want to kiss but now don’t. Then you write about the girl you kind of wanted to kiss and did. You know, your lips almost forgot how to do it. Maybe this is why you can’t write. You are lacking kisspiration.
You make lists of boys you would kiss. You know that real people do not make Kiss Lists; you are all words and no action. Someone yells Action! and they karate kiss. You stop and say, ‘Karate kiss. K-A-R-A-T-E K-I-S-S. Karate kiss.’ They applaud you, but your lips still go home limp and unused. Lips should be used. You should be kissed, and often, and by someone who knows how.
There is a breeze in the summer air and you are home alone. The cat rolls around on the marble floor. You are catty and feline. You are sultry and lazy and arrogant and proud; you are such a cat. But if you were really so dazzlingly independent, you wouldn’t be sitting at home spilling secret posts onto your very public blog. If you’re so funny, then why are you on your own tonight ? And if you’re so clever, then why are you on your own tonight ? If you’re so very entertaining, then why are you on your own tonight ? If you’re so very good-looking, why do you sleep alone tonight ? I know … ‘Cause tonight is just like any other night. That’s why you’re on your own tonight.
Your posts read like a broken record; you are a cliche. This is okay. You wonder what would happen if all your readers appeared suddenly on this Athenian balcony. You would call you father and ask him which wines not to touch. You would whip up some meze (or order it; same difference). You would all talk and laugh and feel very present. You would go to sleep smiling. You would wake up the next day and write.
You would write another post just like this because, ironically, not being kissed just makes you want to write about kissing all the time.