The days go by, one by one. Sunrise, sunset. Etc etc. Sometimes I don't think about you at all. Sometimes I go days without you ever popping back into my mind. Sometimes I'm free. But everything always comes back to you. There's something different about you, somehow, even though you're really just the same.
Incidentally, I accidentally wrote "Sometimes I go days without you ever POOPing back into my mind." I think that's also kind of fitting. The way I start to think about you again is really just as involuntary as a bowel movement. Also similarly, it's sometimes painful but always incredibly satisfying. Sometimes it inspires me to write songs.
Alright, everybody, lay down your pens. I hereby win the award for most romantic paragraph written in the last century.
Shall I compare thee to a summer's shit?
Thou art more beautiful and more temperate:
rough winds do shake the darling turds of May...
I invite you to translate the rest of that into something more fitting of the poop metaphor. It is almost too easy a translation, honestly.
There's a Weezer song off their new album called "Where's My Sex?" which was purportedly inspired when someone in Rivers' house misspoke while trying to say "Where's My Socks?" The song was written about trying to find your socks, and then the one word was changed. I think that's basically what Shakespeare did for Sonnet #18. It was originally about poop jokes etc., but he changed a few choice words and voila, we have the masterpiece we all know and love.
If Shakespeare was immortalizing the person he loved in that poem, then does that mean that's what I'm doing here in this thing? Thank god I'm not writing down your name, or else you will forever be remembered as the girl with the poop-story written about her.
I'm sorry, Crystal, I just can't do that to you.
Oh wait, shit.
My bad.
Incidentally, I accidentally wrote "Sometimes I go days without you ever POOPing back into my mind." I think that's also kind of fitting. The way I start to think about you again is really just as involuntary as a bowel movement. Also similarly, it's sometimes painful but always incredibly satisfying. Sometimes it inspires me to write songs.
Alright, everybody, lay down your pens. I hereby win the award for most romantic paragraph written in the last century.
Shall I compare thee to a summer's shit?
Thou art more beautiful and more temperate:
rough winds do shake the darling turds of May...
I invite you to translate the rest of that into something more fitting of the poop metaphor. It is almost too easy a translation, honestly.
There's a Weezer song off their new album called "Where's My Sex?" which was purportedly inspired when someone in Rivers' house misspoke while trying to say "Where's My Socks?" The song was written about trying to find your socks, and then the one word was changed. I think that's basically what Shakespeare did for Sonnet #18. It was originally about poop jokes etc., but he changed a few choice words and voila, we have the masterpiece we all know and love.
If Shakespeare was immortalizing the person he loved in that poem, then does that mean that's what I'm doing here in this thing? Thank god I'm not writing down your name, or else you will forever be remembered as the girl with the poop-story written about her.
I'm sorry, Crystal, I just can't do that to you.
Oh wait, shit.
My bad.
