Tuesday, February 15, 2011

It's the Day after Valentine's Day, so I can stop being nice to you and start telling you how I really feel...

I woke not to the sound of my alarm, but to the sound of a distant lawn mower. 1:30 pm and the hot February Sun is poring in through the curtain less window.   I try to open my eyes, but my head is tingling too much from last week's illegal drug use.  Forget it.  I'll go back to sleep.

I'm sorry.  I'm cranky when I don't get my REM sleep.  I'm like a starving grizzly mother bear and you are a like an amateur documentarian that Wener Herzog is going to have invent a 3 dimensional personality for.  I'm going to eat you for breakfast and you are going to be like,"You are so fucking beautiful, man!"  

That's just nature's way.  The big and the hungry eat the meek and the curious.  And sometimes their girlfriends. 

It's the day after Valentine's Day.  I don't much give a shit for Valentine's Day.  Romance has always bothered me.  I have been told that I am least romantic person in the world.  But that's not true.  The least romantic person in the world is the guy who duck taped you inside his van and then laughs when you scream in pain as he slices off another hunk of your thigh for breakfast.

On the other hand, I don't buy cheap grocery store flowers or pre-molded heart shaped boxes of chocolate for you on the way home from work.  That hardly makes me a bad person.  At most it makes inconsiderate.  At best it makes me a hero when I donate all the money I would have wasted on flowers to S.h.a.r.e. or some other charity that keeps African children from dying from dysentery.

Speaking of dysentery.  I guess photoshopping a couple of staving children's bowel movements onto your Valentine's day card was a little "tasteless."  Sorry.  I can't help myself.  For a second there I thought you were going to enjoy your day and if you know anything about me by now it's that I can't stand anyone around me having a good time. (Unless I am drunk.  I guess we know why you became an Alcoholic. I just assumed it was all about meeting plenty of tattooed covered dick with intimacy problems.)

I digress.  This isn't supposed to be about you.  It's supposed to be about me.  Or about the readers, or somebody else.  But mostly I don't care about those things anymore.  I care only about my swollen heart.  It wants to beak again.  

Only thing about that?  I've noticed that is there is almost nothing left to break.  My humanity dissolves 
 like the gallon of water you pour into your busted radiator cap every time you get the urge to come pick me up.  I'm not sure why you need me.  I guess a shrink is too expensive.

p.s. to the little girl who cried when she dropped the christmas globe that was 90% off , you clumsiness in full effect you watched the glass fall and shatter, spilling water all over me. your big droopy eye, full of puss,stares... accusing me of  letting it break.  it's not as bad as it seems....

it's worse.