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I’m into porn. Cookbook porn. It’s a terrible habit.

“Did you know there are parts of Spain where a boy has to jump over a bull to become a man?” you ask.

‘There was a severed head buried in here,’ I say. ‘Over there I think.’

One thing popular history does is flatten periods and locations, making them into one smooth thing.

“You would kill it in speed dating!” says the woman at the bar who is not interested in me.

In my phone, there are a few photos that let me know when I am getting close to you.

After a whole night of chatting and lovemaking, you got up about ten o’clock the next morning.

“I’m telling you, this is one of the best ones I’ve come across so far,” he said, sliding the apparatus across the table to me.

A zebra spider has made her home under the garden table on my patio.

You might very well have been one of the deaths of me.