love, lies, fame, and my curse

it is hard for me to remember what love was all about. you know, butterflies in your stomach love. i'll bet that is why mrs. squirrel hasn't come back. i lack the romantic. flowers? poetry? i don't know if i want you to believe i am special, or know that i am no different than you, does either belief help? anyone? i'll tell you what I can't believe, that it is Tuesday already. at this point i'll worry about just about anything rather than to start writing that damn vampire trilogy. but it is what the fools want. and I am but your slave. i squirrel: my curse, my genius; my gift, myself.