April 3rd, 2009

Advice and Relapsing:

When booking a night for an art opening, avoid Salsa night.

Congratulations on your train of women, baby. I'll take a congratulations on getting over you whenever everybody realizes that damn, that shit ain't easy. I love you forever but you can't be lookin' at me like that every time I wear a little eyeliner. Remember I'm a separate list altogether; the train you hop on just before the other derails and sends dozens of broads shooting off a cliff with their mouths foaming and their bras undone. This ain't the hein train and you ain't gettin' any pussy aboard this iron horse, but you can trust I won't steer you wrong or right into hell, so long as you don't mind the sounds of me goin' to bonetown every morning noon and night with that one over there who showed me how good requited love really felt.

You're beautiful, I don't know why, and you know I'm no brute myself, but you got a list of names to cross off before you can keep up with me now. I tippy-toe around you because one wrong move will stir you from innocence and we'll end up drunk and dry-humping in a stairwell somewhere with no real intention of calling duty to the event. In a million years I still don't expect you to change your mind or gamble your untainted love for me, and I'm happier and healthier albeit nearly wordless in my new digs, so lets not pass around a hot potato and wait for it to burn us. Treat your kisses and your lusty stares like cigarettes outside the bar when I'm drunk and jonesing; lets be the best of friends we can to each other and just not let it happen at all. No cigarettes, no coughing. Do them girls a favor, though, and install some damn seat belts on that train of yours; you know exactly where they're all going so give 'em a little warning before you start chugging away into infatuation's hell.