*The morning after*
A few of us are recovering in the living room, the St. Patty’s aftermath.
My girlfriend Andy says to him, So you’re ancestry is Danish? And your family still owns a farm out there?
He replies, “Yea, I was out there last summer.”
So tell me because I always forget, where exactly is Denmark on the map? It’s like, the middle finger of Germany, right?
The abject doltishness of this kid made me want to grab the blades from my box cutter, skin my body in its entirety from the offal, and beat him with my own carcass until he was 50 yards off the premises. Where do I dig up these fucking guys?
This kid will be worth 30 million some day. I can’t do it. It’s just not enough. I don’t fish with a pole in blue waters. I fish blind, with a dragnet, picking up every straggler and bottom feeder indigenous to this swampy marshland.
I know what I want, but I don’t know if it exists.
I am repulsed yet regretfully amused.
This is what could be considered as knowingly lowering one’s standards.
My foresight remains blurry at about two hours away.
I leap without look.
However, I never stride in low tide.
I will not acquire any knowledge or inspiration from this.
He is no muse.
Welcome to a world that bares emotions with such a depth one can do little more than skip stones across.
18 March 2012
Went To Bed With A Beer, Woke Up With A Boyfriend by Sophia Blacke is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.