French posting

Thinking about how I could have been born in a little fishing village in Brittany, maybe Brest, plucking oysters from the sea, laying on my back in the summer letting the sun blush my face and the ocean air fill my lungs as I crack the oysters and make filthy French jokes with my friends, maybe something about how Arielle’s pussy is like an oyster and we’re on the back of a fishing boat laughing, it’s been a long day, but it’s good to work and there’s wine, my wife and a bouillabaisse waiting at the end of it, but instead I do ketamine and try and to figure out if the person In talking to on the other side of the world is a man or a woman identity based on a little picture on a phone because their name in their email signature has they/them while I try and sell expensive soap and think about little ways we can sell more of it all day and get thrush and I’m so fucking itchy I’m actually thinking about putting Greek yoghurt up there for relief.