E-lec-tri-c-i-ty
Meeting the rockstars du jour, the belles of the ball, the homecoming kings and queens, why does this always happen? And those that would piss themselves in excitement to meet who I've met, where are they? Wouldn't they perhaps have said something more intelligent? Less intelligent? Less something? Maybe they wouldn't get shitfaced beyond recognition, maybe they would have paper napkins signed. They would curtsy, pulling the sides of their doilies up, smiling behind golden ringlets, pink shiny faces, rosy red. Enter smutty, charcoal-cleaned, ashen and brazen drunkard, grabbing the floor, dragging the half-dead body up wooden stairs, down broken leather sweat seats. Bar-lighting, sepia toned fingernails. This is how it began - this is how it will end. A testament to sobriety, a letter to your mother, father, brother, and sister. The dog gets thrown a bone, the cat is pushed off the couch. Grass grows, leaves pull out of sticks, why can't I have some phoenix? At least some tremendous excuse for the horseshit I can't rise from?
2005-05-21 | 3:33 p.m.
