I'M NOT A SEX MANIC.

I was at the ledge and was trying erase some intelligent memories; and I thought of something dark. Like me in a verge of a fruit tree picking faces with names on it. Then I thought again, why I'm I so addicted with thoughts? I'm I me or someone I want to be? So I went inside and took another glass of wine and felt, oh maybe its just that you want to be loved but you cannot recognize love without thoughts. 

After this sentence, I think I'm just masturbating with my own ego. Maybe its time I do some Id. Motion, like super-ego is present but absentee. I will tell him oh better hide. I have malice and bliss and conscience on the side but not as the main menu. See I am obsessive compulsive and now I think music with the essential random music, I play is a pure white lie of my daily grind of who shall prevail? Me, My little church inside or my mini me? 

Oh I said to myself; I think they're right. You need to buy some glue to fix that less lubricated grammar of yours. But who cares, in my forth phrase maybe It will not be as sanitized as this one. I am single and I need to devote this free time of mine without redundantly wishing I am the best lover in the world, just simply a hopeful romantic wishing someone up their will over-look a deceivingly pretty angel that will push me to the oblivion of sinful love. 

See the forth conclusion is better, since it has nothing to do with anybody else but my own person lips on service of being for others. I thought then why do film characters enjoy the luxury of having love but not free sex on the streets? Maybe it's their agents or maybe they have existing contracts unpaid. I love being me because I think I'm crazy yet expensive. Then it goes further into something like; co-join twins of the film whatever happened to baby jane in one Woody Allen film. I think I'll change my name to Jesse V. Davis