Bimodal after-party blues

I should tell you, before we do this, that there's black hair all down my chest. Now don't be surprised if you dig it--it's a cue that you're a starving artist, which I'm into, sort of, that is, until I see the bill.

I don't look like a model, but I've been told that I've got depth. And now you've got the hiccups because I revealed to you the low-point of my life--the funny one, I mean. Not the real one. That one hits too hard.

Now be a dear and fetch me a bottle of water... and a can of peaches if you can.

I see you've got the hiccups because I told you how I crawled upon the pubic ground in the space between two toilet stalls. I didn't mention that I could have escaped easily by opening the door. Then you would realise that I like, for no particular reason, nothing more than a good, dirty crawl.

I am a pig, but lately I've found that some chicks fancy that.

Can I be so bold as to ask if you are "some chicks"?

My God I wish you'd finish your wine because I'm on this bimodal sleeping pattern that leaves me a wreck every sunset. And I've run out of things to say. So I'll gaze past all the pretty girls with my eyes stretching miles and miles and miles and miles.

I notice there are many, many girls here--usually around the age of 24--who are prettier than you. I gaze. Sexy, awkward, I really can't tell right now. Am I awaking the starving artist? It exists in every girl. But I would appreciate it if he stayed asleep until after you've purchased your round.

Now you've got the hiccups and I'm drunk and home alone. But I'm happier than a handsome model because yesterday someone called me a little rebel monkey. Oh, oh yeah... It's really quite late, but as I'm awake in the fucking predawn, I'll text you a message to remind you of our mortality. I have an idea (ouch!). For our first proper date we can see King Lear and maybe slit our wrists.

Have you read the play? It's dark.