come on baby, light my fire

Solo: Every now and then I'll come home to an empty apartment and do that slow stroll throughout, letting my fingers linger on things while I pass by, like they do in the movies. Pretending I and only me can afford this place and all these things are mine only mine. And then I see that Nuv has left the fan on, his socks from yesterday are helter skelter, his empty tea cup sits next to his purple chair, fucking 'Morning has Broken' is on the TV cable station I put on and nobody is here to care that I way too easily sliced my thumb with a raw chicken infested knife. I don't want to be Carrie Bradshaw! I MISS MY HANDSOME HUSBAND.

Romancing myself: Our apartment has approximately 7 candles per square inch, and I am lighting some right now. I will one day set something I care about ablaze, but until that day, let there be ambiance!

Dear Stomach: 
You're giving me a bad rep. It is getting increasingly difficult to garner sympathy about you being in distress. Partly because it is happening all too often, but mostly because when you tell somebody you have a stomach ailment, I believe they instantly envision you sweating and writhing on the toilet. So, let's strike a deal, right? I will do my best to not lower ladles of mayonnaise and candy down towards you, and in turn you can stop pretending to contain poisoned spider monkeys frantically trying to escape through my large intestines.
(Your source of everything)