Slutever.

The monotony of it turns my stomach anymore.
The dirty looks and snyde remarks the ogre role elicits
in the unrecognized name of responsibility.
The clean-up and the mourning after.
The hair-ties, bobby pins, backs of earrings.
Loose change from the pockets of loose women.
Paper bags from plastic dinners for rubber souls.
Expensive beer missing from the bottom bin in the fridge.
Cheap beer left half-drank on every flat surface.
Bottle caps, beer tabs, crushed potato chips.
Beer pong balls under tables sticky with spilled drinks.
The empty bottles I bought a few days ago
that I barely got to have any of before the bastards
cleaned me out, house and home, limb from limb.
And if they ever come back looking for their dignity
I'll tell them to check between the cushions of the couch.

The aftermath of a good time had too fast for the wrong reasons.
Phone calls asking him to come clean up the vomit
he left for me in the morning.
At least he's one of the few who will.
Still, it's sad to watch, has been for years.
Binge/purge.
I know why he does it.
We have similar reasons, only mine are mentioned
and almost go away from time to time for as long as
they choose to stay.
"Never let me drink that much and that fast again."
"Yeah. So we'll do it again this Saturday?"
"Yeah, give me a call."

It used to be all part of the game, but I've hung up my gloves.
Yeah, I know. I keep saying that.
And I bet you're looking
for a reference to yourself right about here.
Don't hold your breath.
No.
Do.

Maybe all of this stems from
the cigarette I'm craving.
I smoked the last one in my last pack
today and want to see if I can go without that vice.
Bumming a few while drinking won't count
or after a hearty meal or mind-shattering sex--
it's the ones you suck on your down-time
at work every day that kill you slowly.

Somewhere along the way talent was replaced with style.
Shortly afterwards, the man with the biggest gun shouted
"Every man for himself!" and we've all paid the price ever since.
Or at least most of us.

I'm not asking for the strength to deal anymore.
I'm asking for a mortgage and locks that only I have the key to.
Well, only me and mine.

Bobby pins.
Jesus saves.
Gretzky scores.
Or did I mix those up again?

It's all the same.
And it will continue to be

until they're gone.
Until they're all
fucking
gone.

Today I quit smoking
like tomorrow I'll quit you.

But I have to go now, it's almost time.
Something tells me we won't get to the movie
and I don't mind that one bit.
In fact, it's the only thing.




Currently reading:
"The Selected Stories of O. Henry."