Motivated by Sex / Comforted by Death

“I love death! And sex!” I blurt out accidentally, in the way I so often do when I say questionable shit. “I mean, I’m a Scorpio,” I continue, as an excuse - what I think might water my statement down to a palatable flavor, because she’s shooting me a look like I’ve just flung dirty underwear in her face. In my defense, she just finished saying she was writing a whole-ass book about death, so I don’t see what the problem is. Guess we’re not gonna bond over this one. Oh well. 

I stand from the table, drop my plate in a bus tub and decide to go look for Christopher. Or “A Christopher “. We’ve come to understand there likely is more than one black snake on the hundred acre farm, since he seems to be everywhere. I anthropomorphize Christopher and assume he’s also a Scorpio therefore thinks about sex and death all day, every day, just like me. Really, Christopher probably doesn’t ponder these subjects the way I do, if at all. I wonder if he’s even aware of his own mortality. What motivates …