by Holly Jensen
An open relationship is like a game of chicken. There’s a winner and a loser, and losing involves wincing.
Never date your dealer. Hell, don’t even fuck your dealer.
If you return to a ransacked home, don’t think burglar, don’t think poltergeist. Think raccoon.
No, no. An open relationship is like playing tennis, cause love means zero. Cause it’s all about setting something just out of his reach.
Let’s see. Never try to snort anything through a bendy straw.
And never tell a man that you thought he was gay, even— especially— if you mean it as a compliment.
Wait, wait. An open relationship is a good chance to experience sadomasochism for anyone who has no interest in sadomasochism.
The most stubborn stain is a bloodstain. You have to get at them quick with the coldest water.
And, for God’s sake, if you’re going to be an alcoholic, have the good sense not to be a drunk.
Okay. Here. An open relationship is like a game of Russian roulette. The first round, you might make out okay, but, sooner or later, it’ll kill you.
Oh, and hell isn’t other people. Hell is just you.
Holly Jensen’s favorite word is love, and her least favorite word is love. She’s been in Folio (issues 5 and 16) and will be in PANK October 2010.