Kleenex. I give her Kleenex.
I wash my own face from the orifice of the divine spits at me. Anything else would feel like taking someone out to dinner, and afterwards go like, "So, you owe me 20,50$ plus cabfare. I don't do checks."
A short, intense life, burning out before 50 with sex, drugs and rampamt hedonism, exiting with 9mm-sleeping pill and a rotten-body landslide into a coffin, organs as useless as filled up condoms,
or
do the 9-5, hustling to climb the corpo-ladder, get a mortagage, settle down into co-depence, hybrid car, hitting the same pussy/getting pounded by the same dick for life, breed tiny you's and dying of natural causes at 90?