I told her I wanted to avoid any kind of heartbreak at all costs.
She obviously wasn't listening, or simply didn't care, because her next move was to insist that we get modern day mid-twenties married. No ring, nah, the only thing I handed her was a handful of explosive orgasms and clever Valentine's day gifts, Her, all she handed me was her lips and a massive shit storm every time I forgot to call her after work.
And now, which is different temporally from the time I was just writing about, all I can read is rock and roll folklore. Epic rockstar debauchery. The dark stuff. And now, which is slightly embellished and probably a little frightened, all I can think about is getting Keith Richards-Mcgowan-Reed-Ryder-Vicious-Rose-Costello fucked up and dancing like a fool at a Battles concert. You know, REALLY go for it, smash my teeth out on some ratty, sticker coated green room wall so the acid will absorb better, you know, get in there. Inject booze, go Aerosmith and inject acid, mix hair gel with crushed up painkillers and give myself a mohawk.
After all, I'm a human, I can take it. The closest I've come to testing my limits thus far adds up to something like this (choose one):
a. bungee jumping in Wisconsin dells.
b. mixing mushrooms, weed, and beer (oh. snap.)
c. calling my grandma after happy hour.
It never was going to go anywhere, but I will be damned if I didn't give the impression it was going to end in puppydogs, fairytales, glasses of wine over green fucking fields, flowers in her hair. I knew damn well what wasn't going to happen, but she didn't, and the rug came out from underneath. The resulting wipeout probably looked fucking hilarious to the sidelines, but we weren't laughing.
Afterwards, my dick look like I had used it to murder a thin-blooded public transit wino...
...I've never killed, or at least not with my hands.
And then there is my chosen line of work. There we go. The business, which is great, but these aren't the days of old, I don't have indie, mob-tied sharp dressed motherfuckers beating down my door, laden with hookers, lines of "work", and stacks of records to corrupt me with. No way, I have assistants being flogged by their bosses into calling me, wondering where the money for their digital billboard/pop-up ad is. Other people pretending they aren't looking out for the ol' number one.
don't get me wrong, I'm not complaining, but Nico was constantly whipping Iggy Pop's skinny fingers for not being full of "ze poison", as she called it, and she is half right.
Now her medicine cabinet?! That fucker had some rockstar potential. Close your eyes, reach in, and swallow, Syd Barret in five minutes.
So anyway, I keep trying to convince myself that there is a point to all of this...other than to finally write "that abstract shit" I keep hearing so much about. Sounds like a hoot, but I'm only going to write it if my grandmother can read it.
So Polka Dot, this one is for you baby. I hope it is what it should be out there. Make sure to keep the wig on, and cut that fucking dance floor into a million pieces. You can count on me to do the same.