I study literature and often

they come looking for writers

for all sorts of things

-magazines and contests-

and there's always hands up

hands of all those kids who proudly write.

I never say I write

nor I ever will.

Because I don't.

I can't write.

I can only feel.

What I feel is usually shitty.

L.

How much?
I ask because I'm fairly certain I sold mine a while ago.

Admittedly, I drank some away;

admittedly, I gave each of those boys a piece;

truly, there’s a part in each of these poems,

and my father carries a bit

in his jacket pocket

but I shouldn't mention it.

I never seem to explain to anyone
how sometimes the matters of eternity keep me awake at night,
It's not the fear of hell or the hope of heaven
it's more of the question on everything that remains.

Eternity feels like your second bottle of beer
on a hot summer night
 just before it makes you feel bloated;

when it feels like a pit in your stomach.

So far and so long are short.

—L.

Hello, handsome single gentleman. This is I, miss Loretta Rivera's common sense. I address to you, just to give you a quick tip about getting it going with my owner.

She's a fucking idiot. Honestly.

She won't EVER have a single clue about your interest on her. It won't even cross her mind because she is a complete moron.

If you ever feel the slight intention to approach her in a romantic way, please, feel free to direct this exact words to her:

“Young lady, I want to let you know that I am ATTRACTED TO YOU AND THAT I LIKE YOU BECAUSE OF REASONS. THIS IS ME HITTING ON YOU. You are a nice human and I would be interested in being your human-partner-thingy.”

That will give this dumb fuck a clue.
YOU ARE WELCOME.
—LorettaRm's common sense.