Friday, April 6, 2012


I'm sick and tired of this crazy-ass seaside town. It's no place for a gentleman and badass like me. (But you're a gentle lamb, even with those socks). Hello, Brighton. The slow clomp of my cowboy boots along your streets is drowned out by the football chants of your boozed-up Brits. I know you have pagan roots, but, in these modern times, it's just tacky to do it so overtly. So please do shut up, and if you're going to be slutty, for god's sake be thin.

Hello you hazel girl. I'd like to steal you away. But then you go on about the weather and baby that's not cool.

Let's go to Pret and eat prosciutto ham. And you're fooling around with that half-assed man and all because he's less frightening than me. I wish you'd embrace The Chills.

I've never met someone so god-damned fit yet so fond of cows. You wear them on your socks. How weird. Yes, I do, I do like tea--pour me some of that fucking black darjeeling because it gives me the tingles when I do it right.

Do you feel it? Or are you stupid?

I didn't say that last part... We're having of those hot-shit mornings. It's bright around the edges, but darkened at the core. Like that little wooden chap in my closet. I have introduced you to Henry, haven't I? My dummy? My darling, darling dummy?

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

I'm surprised you didn't name him Herman.