He's feeling playful because he didn't get enough pillowtalk after showersex tonight. The cheesefoods are singing silly songs in their cat-treat enclosure, extra moist, driving Little Metatron batty. Your life is all jalapeno poppers and project hoppers. Don't forget the receipt for those Swishers. Will he be jealous if he finds out about your entirely separate, ritual use of sexuality? Even the gods get jealous. Especially Hera. But Zeus was worse than Tony Soprano. "Catharsis from thesis-writing headspace" is the rationalization du jour. It keeps the moisture moving and the internals working overtime. Remember yesterday you told him he was obsessed with death? Just now he's having an acute anxiety reaction over that one. Add another thousand clams in "afterlife" shit to the shopping cart, surfing Amazon with his pajamas on, aping lyrics from the best. Please incorporate a large talking fish into your next unfilmed (which is to say apocryphal) movie script or freshly aborted novella. The dominatrix's matrix is making omelets and perpetrating hate crimes. Why you gotta front? He's got the Pleiades growing in his armpit and Orion's belt constricting his holy frijole. Saying he's obsessed with eschatology sounds so much more socially acceptable. The cult of science and the death of classical education are the only reasons he seems unusual, which is to say totally neurotic. Unfortunately the conscious recognition of antisocial behavior in oneself is seldom enough to "cure" it. On the inside yous are goddamn butterflies constructed of papier-mâché pinecones. This is the beginning of something grape.