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By Rhetoric Date: 2002 Jan 05 Comment on this Work [[2002.01.05.19.27.3979]] |
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Oh, how you do jab at my spirits with all your talk of love. Love, love, and more love; who the fuck really cares about the intricate bond between two people? I know I couldn't give a rat's ass who you are in love with this week or how great her hair looks in a pony tail. You philosophize about man and woman, the role of sexual innuendoes in Poker, and why Eve is the archetype of feminine prowess. And...your point is? You have too much time and too little sense to bother ME with all you petty talk of love. I just wanted a few hours of sex on my pillow-top mattress. Can't a girl get laid in this town any longer without having to force a dull conversation disguised as foreplay? I ask myself this, as I am trying to coax you into leaving my bedroom - why was I ever drawn to your type of Hippyfied (all love and sensitivity - can't we just cuddle?) Bravado, anyways? Why, when all the glimmer and glow has dulled, do you still sit on my bed? It is apparent that this night was a dreadful mess, never to be repeated by myself in this life OR the next. At fist glance, you blazed with bright hopefulness. All your fancy words hinted at an intelligent life form. I simply did not see that your light was just the reflection of a hundred vodka bottles dancing. What could have been a 5-dollar prize, (cost of one vodka tonic) quickly fell. You now swim in the depths of bargain bin, patchouli stinking, pseudo-intellect freak. You began to bore me just as soon as we stepped out from the safe, cozy confines of the Darts 'n Drink. Next time, I will look closer at the 'Man for Sale' tag and read the fine print. |