Lolita, light of my life, I feel fire in my loins. I lit my underwear on fire for you, Lolita. No one wants to be set on fire, but, for you, Lolita, I just couldn’t help myself. You make me do crazy things, and I don’t even know the first thing about you. Besides one thing. Two words. Your name. Lolita.
Lo-lee-ta: I like putting hyphens between the syllables of your name because I can. Truthfully, Lolita, I think you’re making me insane. Like just last week I ran down a cohort of children with a school bus. And I did it all for you.
I need to be stopped. But how, Lolita? How else can I show my love on this boring ball we call “Earth ball?” I just ran down another ten kids. “I’m sorry kids!” I yell back. They’re already mush. Mush ball.
You’re Lo, plain Lo, before I’ve written down the “li” and the “ta.” Sometimes, I change things up and write, “Lilota,” or “Taloli,” like you’re Hawaiian, or some kind of pasta, or some kind of Hawaiian pasta.
Do you love me yet, Lolita? Are you proud? I’m not proud of these horrific crimes, and I love children. But not as much as I love hitting them. Writing your name makes me go crazy. Down go another ten. And I don’t even know how to pronounce “Lolita.” Ten more. Lo. Lee. Ta. Still, no clue.
