Dear Girl with the Pink hair on the ‘L’,
Hi. I’ve seen you on the train a few times before. I know this because we pasted sexy glances at each other and I got a Deja Vu type experience. The kind where everything gets foggy like your high as fuck, or dreaming, yet know you’re still awake because the crazy guy next to you is ranting about black Nike socks and you know that wasn’t in the fantasy.
Anyways, you could have guessed it but I think you’re fucking sexy. I had the perfect way to start a conversation and felt like luck was on my side when you got off at the same stop as me. You had on small black converse with skulls and no socks. I know this because I find it really strange that girls don’t wear socks in the Chicago winter. I was going to ask your thoughts on this, but you just fucking J walked across the street like a crazy bitch.
A part of me thought the whole Avril Lavigne look was just a part of the quarter life crisis bullshit that most of our generation is going through because we’ve never had to struggle. But oh no, no you. You;’re the real deal. Which is “#amazeballs” as the kids would say, because despite my douche hair cut and grey designer overcoat deep down I’m a total social outcast. Even though I come from a trailer park, I can chameleon with the rich but I really don’t like playing the game. A part of me seems to be disappointed when this happens.
See I feels like I get the struggle your in. You want to rebel, but at the same time you do it in a safe fashionable way. I mean, most of the punks I know don’t put faint matching pink eyeliner on. It just isn’t the DIY way. You’re like that fat kid at camp how wants to get in the pool but only dips his toes in, which is cool.
But unfortunately, you know the ending to this Sid and Nancy story. I was a giant pussy and didn’t chase you down the dark alley you cut across. I’m a dick, I know. Will you ever forgive me for being so old fashioned?
PS. Hopefully we ride the train together so I can awkwardly gawk at the nipple ring piercing through your bad Brains t-shirt in which will enviably find the courage for you to officially call me creepy to my face.
I’m really looking forward to it.
I truly can’t wait.
I’ve never been one for the Holidays.
Especially New Years, Halloween, and St. Paddy’s.
Anytime the normal crowd needs an excuse to get drunk is a night I want to stay in.
I’ve never felt like I’ve needed permission to be me.
Plus, all those days consist of
too many people,
making too many plans.
So much worrying, they forget about the whole reason they’re out.
Not for me.
Just give me a Tuesday.
No possibility of a let down.
Now that sounds like the perfect opportunity.
Rats Ass, Cats Ass, Dirty Ol’ Twat
69 douche bag all tied in a knot
Ranch willow, Sass willow, Pussy willow too
We’re the blueberry men from New Troy,
Who the fuck are you?
I’ve given up internet dating. It was my plan back in October. A new year resolution if you will. But something funny happened. I met a girl I actually like from the internet a few days before new years.
Since then, I’ve watched less porn. Injected more alcohol. And write more.
The worst part about the writing is that I have nothing to say.
I’m just trying to stay busy, because despite my best efforts, this girl has occupied a space in my brain for the past 2 weeks, and I honestly don’t have a clue why.
Sure she’s cute, smart, and puts a capital ‘D’ in Donk. But those aren’t why.
It’s some x-factor I can’t quite put my finger on.
On one hand it’s fucking awful.
I take pictures.
I go to the Gym.
I shamelessly flirt with other girls.
Yet, she’s still in hovering in the same space up there.
But on the other hand,
after all the dates, hangouts, & hook ups over the years,
It’s really nice to know,
that I can still feel this way.
……The only thing left to do now,
is ruin it by sending a picture of my dick.
But not the physical kind where you sweat through your grey sweatpants at the gym.
The mental kind, like when you have poison ivy and you think about anything fucking else but the sweet orgasmic relief of slowly ripping the top layer of skin with your nails.
I haven’t written a story in over a month. That’s like fucking forever.
This time last year I was pumping out stories like Octomom.
Lately it’s been
……Fuck it. You get the idea.
The thoughts come in and I want to “one up” every single one of them like that annoying kid from third grade who always had a cousin that did everything you just said, but better.
Fuck that kid.
And fuck this post.
The next 20 are going to suck too.
Then the next 12.
And finally there will be one good post like this one, which I’ll love but no body will read.
Then 20 more shitty ones.
It’s like my man Vonnegut says:
“…And so it goes”