the pleasure machine

The girl who drew this drew it for a boy she was in love with. Well, wouldn’t that be nice? No, she drew it for a boy she was infatuated with, in lust with, not in love with. A boy she had dreams about. She sent it to him, but he didn’t understand it was a pleasure machine about to snap all of its bolts and spring all of its springs. That’s how things go for the girl who draws messages to the world – they don’t find many receptors out there. And even when people do look, they don’t see. The girl, she’s looking over my shoulder, thought that last sentence was dripping with feel-sorry-for-me-syrup (they tap it from the tree trunks of people in pain – there is no short supply). She wants me to erase it, but it’s already been written, so I’ll leave it anyway. But getting back to the main story – the girl who drew, drew a pretty clear message to this boy, but the boy was missing his receiver. He said, “that’s interesting.” The girl looked down and blushed to the edges of her ears. She couldn’t think of where to go. The space between her hand and his cheek was an ocean she couldn’t cross. The girl behind my shoulder just said, ‘cross that shit about the ocean out.’ I tell her, fine, you explain your difficulties. She says, I don’t want to. And I say, then leave the typing to me. But, now I see, I haven’t taken due care – her indecision has mucked up even this small attempt at clarity. But you get the message, right?