"This will make no sense: TOUCH"
When you're a Priest or Nun, cause you get none, and are celibate--it's called a discipline. When you have Obsessive Compulsive Disorder with Tics and are not merely anal--it's a blessing. Proof of the Illuminati's existence is that television physicians on the propaganda channels tell college girls not to douche; specifically, that the vaginal cavity is a self-cleaning oven--HOGWASH. Gotta clean that sucker out sometimes, at least monthly, and use the kind without fragrance.
I sinned this week, thinking about carnal activity, but I cleansed and sanitized; next, went back to my angelic essence, and told it that I would listen, for I have friends, as did William Blake have breakfast with Arch-Angels every morning. The fox condemns the trap, not himself--remember.
My Grandmother's sloppy kisses, so clean as a whistle; plus, my Serbian Pap's beard scratch on my arm to make me laugh; moreover, my biological father's whiskey fresh scent hugging me with monstrous strength, and my skinny ass couldn't even breathe; next, my biological mother calming me as a youth by scratching my back, and my Golden Retriever giving me her belly to rub--this was TOUCH. Like the Eucharist--Christ touching you, so softly and lovingly. We all need touch. We die without touch. We may not all be social animals, but even a skunk needs touch. Heck, even a golf ball needs kissed by wood.
I miss my biological Dad. If it wasn't for phobias and people's exploitation, though--through my fault, I would've been at his side every moment, happily allowing him to kick my ass. I miss, most of all--his fatherly TOUCH.
