My dad once told me that given the choice between two girls to always pick the one that chews tobacco. Naturally I was curious as to why and he more than willing to tell me. “Well, if she chews then she is already willing to put nasty shit in her mouth, after that it doesn’t really matter if she spits or swallows.”
More true words have perhaps never been spoken on the subject.
I’ve always believed in keeping others on their toes. I can trace this back to being five years old, sitting on the wood floor in the living room, and watching my dad answer the door in nothing but his tighty-whitey underwear while proudly proclaiming to the two Jehovas Witnesses on our front porch that “I really don’t give a damn about what you have to say. The welfare check hasn’t came yet and I’ve got two hungry kids inside. How about you try back next week?”.
We were neither hungry nor on welfare.
As I sit reading I am also picking scabs from my body and placing them in my front right pocket. Somehow I think this idea is going to be as terrible as the rotten baby carrott I found in my pocket last week.
I took my bike out tonight for the first time since the accident. She rode like a whore working for tips.
As the pants slid slowly down your hips it crossed my mind that this was going to hurt later; never having felt pain, knowing I had caused enough, I deserved it. I deserved your inability to live in anything longer than a moment. My hands gently running along your side, pausing at the elastic of your underwear only long enough to hook my thumbs under it, ensuring that as my hands reached your ankles my fate would be sealed.
I would probably agree to “marry” (definition up for interrogation) any female that would agree to let me have Modest Mouse playing in every room of the house all day,every day.
Even if we hated one another. I would be in such musical bliss.
And the sex? Oh my.
These are the things I think about on the toilet while shitting my intestines out.
How I long to sit down naked with you, softly place you on my lap, bang away, faster and faster oh the euphoria.
I love my typewriter.” —Self.
Stitches coming out of my lip in about 30 minutes. About damn time.
That’s right ladies, ill be ready and waiting for you.
Wait, no, not a fucking chance, still delusional from the accident with that last comment.