REPARATIONS

Punk Rock Bowling, anyone?

getting my “fuck you” on.

You keep on calling, and I’ll keep pretending I’m not around.

Tonight the company of a bottle and a record on repeat is all I really need. I don’t know if I’m drinking to remember or drinking to forget; forgetting doesn’t come easy.

Remembering is a sun of a bitch - calls back the insignificant memories that curl your lips into a smile and then immediately sink in your gut like a bad meal. Those heart beating, nostalgic ditties that bring on the “I Miss You’s.” Well fuck those, and fuck me for bringing them up.

Another drink.

It’s funny how another two fingers of whiskey can turn that sappy nonsense right around. No time for remembering. Time to head into the night like some devious underworld creature; a loud, cretinous, drunk monster with bloodlust - blood, and lust. Fill myself another glass of the bitter bite; spit and spite, and now I’m clutching the wheel. No destination really, just a pedal to the floor, and music..

Ah, music.. the god damned savior. The soundtrack that drowns the dialogue of the worst mental movies. Turn it louder. LOUDER. Before I know it i’m out the door, tripping over fire hydrants and cursing those horrible colored street lights. Up some steps, push through a crowd of who give’s a fucks; “Hey watch it asshole!”.. “Fuck you” - and I’m sitting on a stool with another glass in hand. A voyeur at heart; I could care less about the dribble salivating from these fools lips. The kind of people that even make ME question if I’m a cretinous low life. Find the music.

Jameson rocks, please.

I catch myself staring across the bar; heels, stockings, a dress, a face. She’s standing there with some cookie cutter asshole who’s about as deep as my back pocket. I immediately want to fight him and save the day, but this ain’t a movie, and she ain’t in distress. She looks over at me, our eyes meet and she flashes one of those smiles. The guy looks dissaprovingly at my demeanor, and blatant disregard for vanity. I shrug, finish my whiskey, and haphazardly make my way out of the stool and towards the door. Our eyes meet again.

“You’re absolutely gorgeous” is probably what set him off, but the next thing I know i’m shifting gears and putting the pedal to the floor with this asshole slamming on my windows. She’s smiles again as I tear up the block in front of the bar.

Home. Nightcap. One more whiskey, and that same record.
You keep on calling, and I’ll keep on wishing it was her.

i used to post some of my writing on this, maybe i’ll start again. 

fallschirmjager:

The more I know people, the more I don’t want to know them.