When I Write It In The Sand, There Is Something Wrong

Would you love someone if they didn't love the same things as you, or be attractted to them if they did not like the same things as you? The affinity we have for others is really nothing more than an accumulation of things that we have collected - it's not you i like, it's the things you like that i like.

And it is how we define ourselves, with our things. i understand you don't define your self worth by a sport utility vehicle or perhaps a new condo's hardwood floors - i can tell this by your muted scoffing. But you, like i, quietly pride yourself on the books you have read, the magazines you hunt and restlessly await each month, the obscure music you love, the vinyl that you still buy, the clothes you wear that makes you stand out so, and the trips you might have taken around the world. Maybe our jobs and the education we have recieved along the way might creep into the mix of things. We are a collection of things, of objects, of spent money.

So if there is a pulsing want for another person, don't disguise it with justifications on why you would get along without the attraction alone. We really would be more sincere if we all just admitted that we just want to fuck.