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I sat, freezing my ass off with the window open, thankfully inhaling second hand smoke and listening to who did what, who hated who, and who was the easiest out of the bunch. Stone-cold sober? Stone-cold fox! She's got that "I just had really sweaty sex" look on again. Somebody put her out of her misery. Chainsaws and bowling pins.
She says, "Screw you!"
Jack Nicholson says, " You wouldn't know how!" and I get slapped for it. It's hiding things that makes a relationship work. That's what it is, really; relationship work. Sympathy card. Sympathy fuck. "Just kick him in the balls." And all the while, I figured he was a good guy. Who fuckin' knew?
Who's fucking me? Everyone!
"It's all in your mind," she said, "the darkness and the light. The clock, it bleeds for you but you never got the timing right."
I said hi. She just let go from the get-go.
Hitting on someone else's girlfriend is exactly like catching a fish. A big fish. A baseball team-sized fish. Remember that and you'll never be together again.
It's the kind of direct link that all anyone else ever gets from it is a headache or annoyed. I think I finally have something special.
"So confident, in fact, that I go right out and sleep with Marie de Salle."
I hate myself and I want to die. How's that for a reference, asshole? Name-dropped like a sack of potatoes.
I sold my soul to a homeless man who needed it more than I do.
If she says that one more time, I'm going to kick Whitney Houston's ass!
Cross-dominant eyeballs are the shit.
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