For example, he hated creases in clothes. She flung hers on the floor. He neatly folded his.
Let’s straighten things out. A bout of anality.
I wish I were more casual. I want to lie in the rough. Fuck the fairways. Straight down the middle. Slice or stroke?
For fuck’s sake! Golfing metaphors? Whatever next? The delights of bourgeois cuisine?
That’s the war I’m waging.
You can’t present chaos in order. To what? It all falls down.
“I think I’ve just sneezed.”
“Aren’t you sure?”