Not an Onion rather a post-programm Mx^3

If ever I have been self-expressed it is in
motorcycle jeans,
boots with studs, and a sparkle pink tutu 

I am shifting on the pillows of my bed. I have a coffee near me, I am rested and also on edge. On edge is a catch-all phrase for the state of my life. I am juggling half-a-dozen eggs, dancing on a wet floor, mascara smeared, lips arched in a flash of red symmetry.

I count, as I inhale, to eight; hold for seven; exhale on a four-count; repeat until I feel my limbs, fall asleep, snap out of my response phase cycle.

I have been distant here. I've been distant most places. I use time as an excuse to keep people at the edge of my finger tips. It's a tactic I employ to keep my relationships standard, superficial, professional. I fuck based on need. I am beginning to see that my needs remain consistent if I am single. Physically, I freak out and need physical contact every few months. Typically, I find this in a willing man. This has nothing to do with attraction, rather convenience and normalcy. It's easy and far from criminal.

My heart and cunt remain distant. To be very clear, I am realizing slowly that I may not actually like men. I don't like their breath, their belly scratching while they sleep. I don't know where this puts me. It puts me off. I feel too damn old to be figuring this out. I am at a complete loss as I feel like I should know all of this already, that I shouldn't be so damn scared.

I put all of that on hold and stay over-scheduled so that I don't have time to be alone, much less with another person. I tell myself I will meet someone when I am in a city with more queers. I tell myself it's not that I am asexual it's only that I am non-identified and dually incorporated. I am pulling at my lips as I bind my tits.