Monday, November 19, 2007
Current mood: confused
Stu drives one of those mustangs like Sally had when she turned 18.
His testosterone preceded him into the room and I gasped at the sight of him. With a chuckle, cherry coke on my sleeve and tears on my face, I nearly hit the floor.
Oh fuck. Duck, me duck.
Acrid doesnt describe the smoke. It masked the jack something or other, but only if you'd not smelled him before.
I have no inspiration, I am full of shit, and I have fifty bucks I'd like to give to a male prostitute to come play with my hair and listen to me sniffle. Then I'd never have to see him see me normal. If I'd only leave home.
Its been a good year since I've even been this way.
I missed me smelling him.
Like I missed me smelling the floor.
He never existed.
And I am nothing but a lump in a chair.
Do I exist?