Find yourself, before you wreck yourself.
I would like to think that the girl sitting next to me is somewhere in my age range, but I have to assume the worst; she’s sixteen or seventeen. She’s got short blonde hair and a skirt that’s ludicrously short, she’s jabbering away about a Jennifer Lopez movie with an older gray haired guy, who looks old enough to be her grandfather; possibly great grandfather.
Think. You know, or you should know, that this girl is going back to the Waldorf-Astoria with this gray-haired pony in hand, and she‘s going to fuck him dry. I can’t blame her, life is rough, life is really rough and I can’t even fathom the thought of leaving this bar yet. I’m drunk, elbows on the bar, asking the bartender for another scotch straight. He’s denying me this pleasure, just as my girlfriend has denied me to pleasure her. I’m way to drunk to delve into a battle with this combatant.
I find myself at the China Club on West 47th, dancing with a girl or a guy, I can’t really tell the difference. I walk away from him/her and go to the bar to get a drink, because I can’t focus on anything. I can’t focus on people’s faces, and for the first half of my time here, I didn’t know where here was; I had to aptly ask the bartender. I order a beer and take a sip, and find that it’s imported from Sweden, some real shitty Swedish beer. I place it on the bar and turn around, to see a girl in a short skirt staring at me, or at the wall behind me, I’m not sure. Walk over, take a chance, ignore the nagging voice in the back of your skull. Ignore it. She’s hip, she’s cool, she’ll dig you.
You decide that a quick detour to the lavatory is in order, you hit the middle stall and take a leak, you decide to hit the slopes before you go out and make your movie on little Ms. Thing. You set up two lines on the toilet seat and hit them with a rolled up twenty-dollar bill. You’ve got nothing smaller. You hit the second line, and then set up a third, hitting that with much more vigor. Now it feels like the Fourth of July in your brain, nose, and mouth. You keep licking your teeth as you sit in the stall. You keep thinking about the slopes, doing more on the slopes, skiing more, maybe doing some of the rough jumps instead of always going for the cheap way out.
I stagger my way out of the bathroom and find a pillar to lean on. My hands are clammy, but that’s an effect that fresh powder has on me, I’m sweating and I’ve got a chill running up my spine, which I’ll attribute to my hands beginning to freeze. I walk over to this girl, she’s got a resemblance to Kate Jackson, and I’m digging the ugly angel look. I want to fuck her right there, but that’s not kosher, man. I wind up taking my father’s advice: “Buy the broad dinner first," he always said.
my little stab at a 80's fiction. Although, it doesn't necessarily have to be.
Think. You know, or you should know, that this girl is going back to the Waldorf-Astoria with this gray-haired pony in hand, and she‘s going to fuck him dry. I can’t blame her, life is rough, life is really rough and I can’t even fathom the thought of leaving this bar yet. I’m drunk, elbows on the bar, asking the bartender for another scotch straight. He’s denying me this pleasure, just as my girlfriend has denied me to pleasure her. I’m way to drunk to delve into a battle with this combatant.
I find myself at the China Club on West 47th, dancing with a girl or a guy, I can’t really tell the difference. I walk away from him/her and go to the bar to get a drink, because I can’t focus on anything. I can’t focus on people’s faces, and for the first half of my time here, I didn’t know where here was; I had to aptly ask the bartender. I order a beer and take a sip, and find that it’s imported from Sweden, some real shitty Swedish beer. I place it on the bar and turn around, to see a girl in a short skirt staring at me, or at the wall behind me, I’m not sure. Walk over, take a chance, ignore the nagging voice in the back of your skull. Ignore it. She’s hip, she’s cool, she’ll dig you.
You decide that a quick detour to the lavatory is in order, you hit the middle stall and take a leak, you decide to hit the slopes before you go out and make your movie on little Ms. Thing. You set up two lines on the toilet seat and hit them with a rolled up twenty-dollar bill. You’ve got nothing smaller. You hit the second line, and then set up a third, hitting that with much more vigor. Now it feels like the Fourth of July in your brain, nose, and mouth. You keep licking your teeth as you sit in the stall. You keep thinking about the slopes, doing more on the slopes, skiing more, maybe doing some of the rough jumps instead of always going for the cheap way out.
I stagger my way out of the bathroom and find a pillar to lean on. My hands are clammy, but that’s an effect that fresh powder has on me, I’m sweating and I’ve got a chill running up my spine, which I’ll attribute to my hands beginning to freeze. I walk over to this girl, she’s got a resemblance to Kate Jackson, and I’m digging the ugly angel look. I want to fuck her right there, but that’s not kosher, man. I wind up taking my father’s advice: “Buy the broad dinner first," he always said.
my little stab at a 80's fiction. Although, it doesn't necessarily have to be.
posted by JD at 1:34 AM
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