call-me-cosmo

[call-me-cosmo]

Do not hold me in your heart, Dear love, For you will only bleed when I claw my way out.

I am not to be caged by your affections, wrapping your arms around me only puts you in harms way.

[call-me-cosmo]

I swear to god I’ve been possessed by the spirit of Dionysus himself recently 😭

[call-me-cosmo]

Drunk off Aphrodites ambrosia today 🦪

[call-me-cosmo]

I have loved once my darling, And I know I may again.

Though I will miss your touch for months I know this is not my end.

This is not where I end.

I can only hope the same for you, despite the spite I may pursue. I hope your light will still shine true,

Against the darkness I shrouded over you.

I wish you were here to have seen, the person that husband could have been. A man of love and courage tenfold.

A man with whom you could have grown old.

Goodbye, My Danish Sweetheart.

I wish my love had been worth the silver and gold.

[call-me-cosmo]

I think Ambrosia doesn’t have a recipe because it caters to the senses of those who drink it.

To Aphrodite it would smell of roses and blood, with the salty taste of sea foam to accentuate it. It feels like the warm feeling you get when you look in the mirror and realize you love yourself; or when you look at someone and realize just how gorgeous they are to you.

Dionysus’ cup would smell to him of rotting fruit and pheromones, it would taste of honey and the richest of grape, with a slight undertone of pine. You would drink it and it would dull the senses, cause your eyes to squint and your pupils to widen. It would warm that space between your thighs, and feel like the safest embracement of your most sensitive spaces.

Many more examples could be given, however more I cannot provide tonight. Sleep well, dear children. I rest my case as well as my weary head.

[call-me-cosmo]

I don’t like the taste of wine but by god do I like what it does to me.

[call-me-cosmo]

Wine has been deified through history.

And by god is there a reason.

It smells of the death and rotting of the fruit of our labours yet feels of the most divine creation man can hope to take part of. The creation of life.

It tastes of madness and freedom. It fills your senses with not a desire for lust, but for intimacy. And that alone is beautiful. The broken are beautiful. The drunken are beautiful. The mad are the divine. Go on, children, and slaughter the fruits you have so carefully cultivated in your yards. Make into something to aid the cycle. Turn it into something that will bring you that much closer to your gods. Wine and honey is the recipe for ambrosia, dear children.

To be wine drunk is to be holy and by Dionysus’ name my body and mind are as divine as the earth herself tonight.

Amen, and may the mad be forever holy.

[call-me-cosmo]

“Silence, Twink.”

*Dunks your balls in deep fryer*