You said I must eat so many lemmons because I am so bitter.

The title is simply due to my Kate Nash kick; thank you, Pandora radio.

I'm going to try and free associate some paragraphs, just for fun.

I want to write again; I want to feel lady creativity beat through my veins, cloud my vision, fill my lungs, and rock my stomach again. I miss her. Sure, the bitch punches like Tyson, breaks bones like a car accident, aches like a heartbreak, but she's alive. She forces one to notice the world around her, breathe in the happiness and sadness and indifference of the world by way of covering your mouth with her cold but soft hand.

I close my eyes and wait for her to step into my body, take over my insides and abuse my motor skills. When she's in control, one can taste sunshine. One can smell inspiration. One can shiver in the heat and sweat in the cold.

Something unsnaps. I hear it. The back of my head opens like the red door of a townhouse, easily but with a creak which quietly indicates how old the home is. She slips inside, simultaneously filling me with worry and relief. Her delicate, cold fingers carefully run against the gray walls, and she kisses the backs of my green eyes with her warm lips.

I detect her whispers and feel my arms begin to relax as she begins to take over. My stomach tightens and shoulders roll back; I stand slightly taller and breathe in a sweet scent I could only label as "love."

My hips shift, and I take in a shallow breath. Creativity likes to abuse her powers; she tugs all sorts of strings so one doesn't know whether she's coming or going. A moment of euphoria shakes my body, and I notice Creativity's lips and fingers slowly making their way down the inside of my body, heading for the location where love and wanting confusingly become interchangeable.

I shiver loudly and pull a breath into my throat when her fingers graze my most intimate point. She continues to explore the walls of my stone body until she reaches my feet and tickles them.

I laugh. I open my eyes. I put down my pen.

The first three pages of a love story sit upon my desk, waiting to be reread.