I love this metaphor. The stone in the shoe, not the 7-inch heel. You lost me there. We imagine the heel, not the stone or shoe and the blandness of the terms. I think Marilyn Minter when I think of strippers, but I don’t like them just because they are strippers, well that’s not true either. I love strippers. The fact that you write like a famous and respectable poet makes me very hot! You are like a novelist, Franzen, for example, no one cheesy. Strippers are never cheesy. You are a god-damned human nature specialist with a PhD in men. I don’t know what you look like, but I would like to marry you, except that there would be no sex, because I know sex is like a joke you can’t stop laughing about and you’ll look at me, and go: “No thank you honey. I already gave at the office. I just need to close my eyes for a few minutes.” But, I love you because you understand me. It’s so easy. And I would marry you because I deserve it. Not in the way you might think, but to writhe in the inevitable withholding of what I want more than anything: Rinse, wash, repeat. The shoe and the stone, over and over and over ad nauseam. I want that desire to take you into my arms to be taken away. It’s dirty. It’s disgusting. It’s embarrassing. But, without you, there’s nothing. My whole life can be explained by you. You are me.