"How was your weekend?" She asked--a perky Lancashire blonde with crooked, rotting teeth.
I was moody. Do fuck off, baby, I thought.
"It was bad," I slyly replied. "I spent it croaking up reality. It's left me with a hell of a god-damned hangover."
I thought of sleeping with her, but she was young and scared of men like me. And I realised I was too beautiful and that she thought me too strange.
The Croak. I should have written it down. I intended to write it down. The great, collective Croak! A round-table discussion on the net hosted by Matthew and Mark-O preaching the gospel of bitches and pizza (good stuff, bitches and pizza). They dance all night to the tunes of DJ Unpronounceable and they forget to write down the moves (thrust-twist-thrust!). And there they are, forgotten to history, going to hell and waste.
The Croak. The song of the Holy Tramp. Too beautiful, too weird, too strange for a pity Lancashire babe to understand. To her it's a garbled mess.
Happy fucking birthday you old dandy asshole! Exchange my party toy for some whisky. To celebrate the occasion I've purchased a MacBook Air. The Dell was hurled out the window in dramatic fashion. Inspiron my ass. I am anew.
2 comments:
I like that you think, do fuck off, baby, even in your thoughts.
Thrust! Twist! Thrust! Sounds like my every night at APK, until I wrench my back, and retire to the brothel for a luxurious sucking off. By then I feel at my fighting best, so I head to DTKB with mischief in my eye, and thunder in my tennis shorts.
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