They feel similar, so it's important to know the difference between love and lust.
Most people hate Mondays. Mondays come after Sundays. Sundays come after Saturdays. Saturdays come after Friday nights. And Friday nights come after the crappy work week that is the gloomy glump made up of Mondays through Fridays pre-Friday nights. We love the weekends. Why wouldn't we? They're the break from life where we get to have fun. Ideally, work is enjoyable because we're doing something we truly love and truly care about for a reason. But the world is not an ideal place. So, most of us get pulled underwater behind the boat Monday through Friday until we can finally pop up and waterski through the weekend.
Mondays are the worst in the cold months. When it's cold out, we're safe and snug in our homes during the weekend. It's easier to rally to go out into the cold when we get to come back to our abodes. We also usually are going out for something we want to do, be it going to eat, going to recreate, or anything else. When we have to go out for work or anything workweek-related, though, it totally blows. It's not choosing to go out into the cold, it's being forced to go out in the cold. So, when Mondays pull us back into stress during the cold, they're the pits. It all comes down to reality checking back in, the rigid reminder that we are adults and responsibility is forever binding.
When it gets warmer out, it's better. No doubt about it and no deep analysis needed. Everything's better when it's warmer. We don't have to bundle up, the sun comes out, the days are longer, we get to produce serotonin again after months of cloudy headed emptiness, and all kinds of fun outdoors stuff is available. The cold is fine and it's nice to be inside a warm, homey home, but nothing beats the outdoors. Not even Floyd Mayweather, and he's a phenomenal boxer who is also related to both the month of May and weather. So, Mondays aren't quite so bad come spring.
Today, I woke up to the strangest sensation. My eyes were closed and my alarm hadn't gone off yet. I felt some sort of warmth on my face and could kind of see a kind of yellowness through my eyelids. Is this death? Have you finally come for me you sweet son of a bitch? I thought. All right, I wanted to one day be taken in my sleep, but if now's the time, let's go. I've danced on the razor's edge for far too long to get away with it. Nothing's ever easy for the smallest man in the world. I opened my eyes, bummed out about having to die but what are you going to do, you know? The warm yellowness was still there, but not in alternative-apparel Grim Reaper form as I expected. The not-death filled my room, a sort of strange not-dark. It appeared to be coming through my window. I got out of bed, walked over, and looked out. There, in the sky, was a glowing ball of some sort.
"Holy shit that's the sun," I said out loud. Memories of this source of life that is our brightest source of light came to me. Yes, the sun! Grower of goods, doer of day! I did a little jig, excited, then turned to the poster of the Grim Reaper I had on my wall. "Not today, you son of a bitch!" I said, pointing at the poster. It's good to have visual reminders of your enemies. There's also a poster of the Burger King King and another of a fedora on my wall. The trifecta of evilness, those three are.
Excited, I put on a pair of shorts and button up short-sleeve shirt and headed out the door. It was a glorious day! I stood on my stoop for a bit facing the sky, eyes closed. It felt amazing feeling the sun, far better than looking up and being showered with boiling water, which happened a lot in Medieval Times. How much would that suck! Back then life was only good if you were born into a good situation. Good thing that's totally not how it works anymore!
I did a second jig--on days like this one is allowed up to three jigs, so why not use them, huh buddy? Are you jiggin' what I'm jiggin'!?!?--ended with some jazz hands, zipped up my pants because I forgot to earlier and even though it was warm I could still feel the ol' crotch draft, and hopped off my stoop, right onto the sidewalk. At least where the sidewalk usually is. Both feet hit the ground and a large purple bubble formed right around me. I looked down at my feet. I stood on a purple square of cement. God damn it, I thought.
I had landed right on a have-an-erotic-novel-experience square.
As I slowed my gallant steed to a trot, the wind came up, blowing open my white linen shirt and exposing my throbbing chest. It was a good, warm wind, the kind of wind that made you taste the passionfruit with the most sensual parts of your tongue. The sun was setting over the calm Caribbean waters. It would soon be night and I would make the soft white sands my bed. But not alone.
There she stood in all of her beauty, Veronica Williamson. I slowly looked from her delicate feet to her golden, flowing locks. She wore but a loose white linen shirt that opened slightly when the wind came up. It was a good, warm wind, the kind of wind that blew open all kinds of white linen dressings, exposing Veronica's curves like passionfruits on a carrousel.
I got off my horse and took her in my arms. Her skin was smooth and warm. She gingerly traced the outline of my stubbly face with her hand. I put my own hand over hers, pressing it against my cheek.
"Do you like the beach, Mr. Samson?" she asked, taking a chocolate-covered cherry from her pocket and slowly putting it into her mouth.
"Did that come from your pocket?" I asked, entranced as she chomped the berry into a gushy red mash.
"Oh, Mr. Samson!" said Veronica. She licked her red, full lips with her tongue, then bit her lower lip, sensually. Then she slapped me very hard. "How dare you!" she said. Then she ate another strawberry, just as steamy as before.
"Wine?" I asked, opening a bottle of cabernet.
"It seems a little late to ask, considering... You've already brought it out," said Veronica, motioning with her head toward my crotch.
I ignored her tease and instead poured two glasses of wine. My horse, completely uncared for and ignored by both of us, was long gone by now, miles down the beach. "Shit, there goes my horse," I said.
"Oh, yes, there goes your horse," said Veronica, this time making eye contact with my crotch, then me, then my crotch again, then me again, again my crotch, again me, and finally my crotch.
I again ignored her temptations, for now, and slowly sat down on the sand. "My ass is quite sore from riding," I said. My ass was quite sore. And sweaty.
"Oh, I bet your ass is sore, Mr. Samson," said Veronica, who now pointed directly at my crotch. "Your front ass, is it?" she asked as she leaned back her head and moved it side to side, fanning out her hair.
"You must be very dumb," I said, tipping back my glass and finishing it in one long drink. "My horse was smarter than you are."
Veronica laughed, tracing the outline of her large breasts with her fingers. "I do love horses," she said. "They're like hairy mopeds."
"I hate you so very much, Ms. Williamson." The tide had risen up and soaked my socks. Why was I wearing socks on the beach? God damn it.
"Kiss me, you silly man," said Veronica as she flung herself on top of me. A very strong wind came up, ripping off both of our white linen tops and carrying them far into the sea, in fact, all the way OVER the sea. "Let me ride you like public transportation."
We kissed long and hard, like two teenagers kiss when they sneak away from free time at youth bible study camp. Her tongue was small and pointy, like a lizard's. It flicked in and out, sniffing the air, hungry for prey. It was also moist, very moist, incredibly moist. She drooled everywhere, and her breath smelled of garlic and onion.
It was super intense, so we stopped for a moment to rest. She sat straddling me and I studied her body. Just the sight of it made me melt like a grilled cheese sandwich left out on a picnic table in the sun, covered with sweat bees.
She had beady little black eyes. They were shiny and lifeless, just like a doll's. Her cheeks were puffy and very high up on her face. They were also uneven, as if someone had mashed together a handful of Kraft Jet-Puffed Miniature Marshmallows and stuck them on her head. Her forehead went three quarters of the way up her scalp, revealing a tremendous liver spot. It was the prettiest liver spot I'd ever seen, like a moldy old pepperoni.
And her breasts, oh how her breasts were perfect. They were the fullest, sharpest breasts I'd ever had the pleasure of poking. Her left breast was an octagon and her right breast was a square. One was black and the other was orange, like two Halloween M&Ms. They were a good foot and a half apart, leaving plenty of space for me to craft my mischief between. Her nipples were stiff from arousal, like two baby carrots poking out from a compost pile. Her nipples were actually baby carrots. I gently kissed her breasts with my burnt, peeling lips. Her breasts tasted sweet, like fermented squash floating down a polluted New Jersey river. Her breasts were amazing, like an old man's arthritic hands. Her breasts were like God's passionfruits.
"Take me," said Veronica. One of her eyebrows floated completely away from her face and flew away. "Take me now."
"You want to have sex?" I asked, remembering that the tuna I had for lunch was long past expiration.
"Yes, but I don't know how," said Veronica, her mustache fuzzy like a poisonous caterpillar.
"And nor do I, my love. And nor do I."
The horse came back with three helper horses. They set up a net and played beach volleyball long into the night as Veronica and I did absolutely nothing, completely unable to understand the throws of passion.
The purple bubble finally faded away and I made my way down the street toward the store. They were all out of SunnyD, which was a total bummer because I was really craving some SunnyD. I was going to drink it and do my third jig, but since I didn't get any SunnyD, I didn't bother jigging again. Man, I love SunnyD. I long for it deep in my loins. I lust for SunnyD.
Ahem. One of the helper horses cleared his throat. He took off his glasses and shook his head. The horse turned the book he was reading toward me. It was a dictionary. He pointed at the entry for "lust."
"Wow, nevermind I just love SunnyD. Thanks, horse," I said. We fist bumped and he broke all of my knuckles with his hoof.
The horses never did let me play beach volleyball.
God, I hate Mondays.