Motherfucking potatoes

The other night I started going through our old e-mails- the ones we wrote when we first met. I have to give it to us -We were both dancing around the subject with grace: I tried to be witty. You made the weird lingustic jokes that you are so fond of. We were like children trying on Halloween masks to see which one will do the trick.

And then there was trying to be lyrical...

-If God was one of us-he would be an old fisherman in a dirty cap living near Auchtermuchtie.He would eat sliced bread and butter on a plastic plate.Then he would eat fish and chips. Fruitcakes. Caramel shortcakes.He would spend most of his day eating.

Or she could be a woman. She would live in the corn maise just north off Idaho Falls.Or down the Queue de Tortue bayou in Louisiana.She would cook fried chicken by the yam tree in her porch.Her bare feet wouldonly just touch the ground.


'Yam trees? You know that yams don't grow on trees right?They are like potatoes.''
Oh yeah em... sure...yeah.Potatoes.'

So you think love is easy motherfucker? Well it's not. There will always be a potato there to fuck things up.