peter pan was a kind of gypsy

i memorized that movie word-for-word as a kid, go figure. never aging is a dream for another world, one that doesn't really exist, but one that i do like to think about. yeah, you are the messenger of my dreams but you don't give me no deliverance. i'm writing the story of your life, well someone else's at least, not mine. even though you don't have any nightmares. that part is fictional. i expect you to deliver me from all evils, but here i am, hopelessly & perpetually confounded by my own mixed emotions and childish reactions. i can't deliver much but a blunt response, you know that. maybe an excellent blowjob or some well-cooked eggs, a fucking cookie. i could knit you an ugly scarf or talk to you about how ginsberg's later poetry is a form of pornography, or how gramsci is the most understated and misunderstood of all marxists, but perhaps the most important. i could organize the files on your desk in a tight dress so you would never really respect me no matter how good i was at organizing and since you hired me because i was wearing that dress now i can't stop wearing it can i. i could wipe the endless surfaces and leave you trite notes to take your vitamins in matronly penmanship like, "take your vitamins, dear." i can't even help myself, you know, despite trying. you could be conscious of it and not really get anywhere if you wanted. and why is it that wanting is doing without wanting it to be. i mean, i get it, its a verb, but isnt it like one of those emotive verbs that don't actually insinuate action? you know i just don't know what to do anymore. but this obviously isn't working out. i mean, me, you, myself, what's the difference?