lessquestionablecontent:

We haven’t seen each other in three years but I liked your picture so I guess it’s ok. Monday nights I spend on porn websites and staring at blank screens and listening to all of the same songs. On Tuesdays I go to the bar and read poetry to strangers and get drunk and talk to no one but the television screen. People try to talk to me, they approach me, and all I see when they do are shipwrecks and corporate training sessions.
On Wednesday I drink coffee and write. I go to the same place every night and hope the guy behind the counter doesn’t recognize me. What I write about now, I write about closing my eyes on Sunday afternoons and hoping a culture of a dream will develop underneath my eyelids. I drink my coffee and listen to songs and scribble until it hurts. I tap my shoulder into the window.
When the night ends, when you go your way and I go mine, you ought not to believe I continue existing. You ought to think I disappear as soon as I hit that corner. You ought not to measure my worth in the time I spend without you. You ought to forget me in conversations with other friends, you ought to reassure me that I only die if I die in a room full of witnesses. You ought to forget me as often as I do.
On Thursday I go to the karaoke bar. I drink four beers, I count them off,  and then I go on stage. I sing Boston, I sing R + B, I sing along to the songs others choose. Sometimes bodies with faces sit next to me and we go places and I feel guilty and I wake up the next morning late for work and I count on my hands all the ways I will fuck everything up. I sit at work, where I’m supposed to be.
The last time we talked I called you a phony but I liked your photo last night. You took up rock climbing and I liked your photo last night. You got your MBA and I liked your photo last night. Your photo of your new boyfriend I liked last night. So now we’re all alright. And I’m back to being what you need me to. I liked your photo last night and you forgot my name, you looked at it and thought “Who liked this.”
Fridays I take the train anywhere and speak with alcoholics suspended in futureless ruts. Beleaguered bartenders make small talk. The jukebox plays the same Creedence song every night, all night, all noise. On the walk home with my slice of pizza, on the walk home with my slice of pizza, listening to The Bends, I’d punch the wall harder if I  didn’t know how stupid it was to punch a thing with anything other than the heel of your hand.
You’ll get married and the wedding will fit atop me like a hat. You’ll be happy and your smile will patter off against my umbrella. Everything is homogenous. Gentlemen with projects tell me things because their own sons hate them, and I chew the inside of my lip until a chunk breaks off.
Because Saturday and Sunday are spent in a room without lights listening to noise. Curled up under the covers protecting me from the air conditioning. Young breasts skating over. Gods asking for a date. I liked your URL, your side project, your page, and I did it all without looking in your eyes. Gods asking for a date. When I come crawling back I come back spouting blood out my mouth. And if you love me you’ll forgive me for what I got on your shoes.

I got a new blog, wherein I write fiction inspired by shitty Questionable Content comics, which, if you are anything like me, you have been hate-reading for years now.

lessquestionablecontent:

We haven’t seen each other in three years but I liked your picture so I guess it’s ok. Monday nights I spend on porn websites and staring at blank screens and listening to all of the same songs. On Tuesdays I go to the bar and read poetry to strangers and get drunk and talk to no one but the television screen. People try to talk to me, they approach me, and all I see when they do are shipwrecks and corporate training sessions.

On Wednesday I drink coffee and write. I go to the same place every night and hope the guy behind the counter doesn’t recognize me. What I write about now, I write about closing my eyes on Sunday afternoons and hoping a culture of a dream will develop underneath my eyelids. I drink my coffee and listen to songs and scribble until it hurts. I tap my shoulder into the window.

When the night ends, when you go your way and I go mine, you ought not to believe I continue existing. You ought to think I disappear as soon as I hit that corner. You ought not to measure my worth in the time I spend without you. You ought to forget me in conversations with other friends, you ought to reassure me that I only die if I die in a room full of witnesses. You ought to forget me as often as I do.

On Thursday I go to the karaoke bar. I drink four beers, I count them off,  and then I go on stage. I sing Boston, I sing R + B, I sing along to the songs others choose. Sometimes bodies with faces sit next to me and we go places and I feel guilty and I wake up the next morning late for work and I count on my hands all the ways I will fuck everything up. I sit at work, where I’m supposed to be.

The last time we talked I called you a phony but I liked your photo last night. You took up rock climbing and I liked your photo last night. You got your MBA and I liked your photo last night. Your photo of your new boyfriend I liked last night. So now we’re all alright. And I’m back to being what you need me to. I liked your photo last night and you forgot my name, you looked at it and thought “Who liked this.”

Fridays I take the train anywhere and speak with alcoholics suspended in futureless ruts. Beleaguered bartenders make small talk. The jukebox plays the same Creedence song every night, all night, all noise. On the walk home with my slice of pizza, on the walk home with my slice of pizza, listening to The Bends, I’d punch the wall harder if I  didn’t know how stupid it was to punch a thing with anything other than the heel of your hand.

You’ll get married and the wedding will fit atop me like a hat. You’ll be happy and your smile will patter off against my umbrella. Everything is homogenous. Gentlemen with projects tell me things because their own sons hate them, and I chew the inside of my lip until a chunk breaks off.

Because Saturday and Sunday are spent in a room without lights listening to noise. Curled up under the covers protecting me from the air conditioning. Young breasts skating over. Gods asking for a date. I liked your URL, your side project, your page, and I did it all without looking in your eyes. Gods asking for a date. When I come crawling back I come back spouting blood out my mouth. And if you love me you’ll forgive me for what I got on your shoes.

I got a new blog, wherein I write fiction inspired by shitty Questionable Content comics, which, if you are anything like me, you have been hate-reading for years now.

http://dogswithbeesintheirmouths.tumblr.com/image/30806505283Rad!

http://dogswithbeesintheirmouths.tumblr.com/image/30806505283

Rad!

(Source: yachtlife)