my visceral dinner

DENNIS: Too busy to blog

JENNY: Too busy even for me? Your “private” blog?

DENNIS: [his laughter setting his corpulence a-vibratin’] Well….. a ho ho ho ho ho ho ho ho

[ten minutes later]

DENNIS: [screaming] Fuuckk!!!!!

JENNY: [deadpan] What’s wrong

DENNIS: Nothing

JENNY: Oh. I thought you were screaming

DENNIS: Naw, just “surfin the web”

JENNY: Ha. Cool.

DENNIS: Where are you going?

JENNY: Out. With a boy.

DENNIS: Oh… I see. Um… are we still dating?

JENNY: Yeah. You’re concerned about the boy? [her heart beats fourteen times, sending blood to all the different parts of her body, all of which are sexy]

DENNIS: No! I mean… should I be?

JENNY: Yes. [her blood is poison. She’s the worst.] Just kidding!

DENNIS: I feel like my viscera are serving dinner to other parts of my viscera, in an artificial “formal dinner” context, sort of like when famous cellists serve lowly students of the bassoon at the magical music camp Alex Ross wrote about

JENNY: That article was odd. It was written with a barely supressed prancey exuberance that bugged me

DENNIS: I still haven’t read the imaginary composers piece. But doesn’t it seem a little overlappy with the Arthur Phillips Believer piece?

JENNY: I don’t know; I don’t read the Believer. Just the smell of that magazine makes me feel so hopelessly and sexually aroused that I go all but blind; reading becomes the furthest thing from my mind

DENNIS: Oh, darling——

JENNY: ‘Kay, not now, sweetie—— gotta run! Back tomorrow

DENNIS: [writhes]

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