Still drunk
Posted on Wed Aug 22 08:12:00 UTC 2007
Poncho, it must be said, was right. I was turning into a total femme lesbian. Bout time to smoke some whiskey, drink down a fine cigar, slap the waitress on the ass and with a rakish grin and a tip-of-my-hat say: “hey babe, wanna toss my salad?”. Masculinity, ah yeah, that's the stuff. Won't even give her my cellphone number afterwards. Oh yeah. How you like that? You love it.
My cock (when erect) is the size of ten skyscrapers. My pheromones are classed as a chemical weapon under international law. When I walk down the street, women; they don't just get wet, they gush the cunt Niagara.
Personally I think “feelings” are for queers, women and emos. I mean, I gots lots of feelings sure. But I only got one way to express them. I love you, punch, I love you, slap, I care about you with a kick to the ribs. Wear my love like a bruise: well, not “like” a bruise, “as” a bruise, as a black eye and broken jaw cos at least I give a damn enough to keep you in line and it's better than being ignored.
Gag on my big beautiful brain you bitches! But seriously, I really don't give a fuck. I sit down, I wanna write, and whatever I feel, whatever I'm thinking at that precise moment, I write. Don't matter what it is, I write. Pure emotion. An RSS feed of myself. My wild mood swings know no true north. Between anger, and love, and fear, and hurt, tumbling over and over without the gravity of shame, I shake up and down like an earthquake.
By being completely open and vulnerable I paradoxically become invincible. I am a pussy. I am a rabid dog. The softest kisses or the strongest punches, depending on the prevailing winds. On the periodic table of radioactive isotopes consider me to be a dangerous and highly unstable element. It's only true: this time, this instant, in ten minutes I might not feel the same way, probably not, I repudiate the past with a piss and my morning coffee. Doesn't matter. It happened but, so?
“MY PROBLEM IS: MY PROBLEM IS THAT I NEVER THINK OF WOMAN AS "JUST FUCKS" AND IT ALWAYS CUTS ME UP, IT ALWAYS CUTS ME UP INSIDE.”
Do I still think the same today? No. I would happily wipe my dick on your chin but! still! I meant it. When I said it I meant it, if only till I sobered up.
My cock (when erect) is the size of ten skyscrapers. My pheromones are classed as a chemical weapon under international law. When I walk down the street, women; they don't just get wet, they gush the cunt Niagara.
Personally I think “feelings” are for queers, women and emos. I mean, I gots lots of feelings sure. But I only got one way to express them. I love you, punch, I love you, slap, I care about you with a kick to the ribs. Wear my love like a bruise: well, not “like” a bruise, “as” a bruise, as a black eye and broken jaw cos at least I give a damn enough to keep you in line and it's better than being ignored.
Gag on my big beautiful brain you bitches! But seriously, I really don't give a fuck. I sit down, I wanna write, and whatever I feel, whatever I'm thinking at that precise moment, I write. Don't matter what it is, I write. Pure emotion. An RSS feed of myself. My wild mood swings know no true north. Between anger, and love, and fear, and hurt, tumbling over and over without the gravity of shame, I shake up and down like an earthquake.
By being completely open and vulnerable I paradoxically become invincible. I am a pussy. I am a rabid dog. The softest kisses or the strongest punches, depending on the prevailing winds. On the periodic table of radioactive isotopes consider me to be a dangerous and highly unstable element. It's only true: this time, this instant, in ten minutes I might not feel the same way, probably not, I repudiate the past with a piss and my morning coffee. Doesn't matter. It happened but, so?
“MY PROBLEM IS: MY PROBLEM IS THAT I NEVER THINK OF WOMAN AS "JUST FUCKS" AND IT ALWAYS CUTS ME UP, IT ALWAYS CUTS ME UP INSIDE.”
Do I still think the same today? No. I would happily wipe my dick on your chin but! still! I meant it. When I said it I meant it, if only till I sobered up.