well, if you've realized that i'm not that same sweetheart boy you fell in love so many years ago (in fact i bare almost zero resemblance,)
then i guess by now you realize i'm not even the same guy you fell on top of at that party at your acquaintance's apartment.
if you're inclined towards drunken stupor, i'm sorely lacking in that department (i prefer drunk & sketchy or sauced and over-honest, myself.) i'm not looking for a savior, nor am i excelling in hard-knock-life complaints or comments,
i'm just a city boy transplanted to the suburbs with a big vocabulary and a thinning wallet.
but as a girl attached to the damaged and flawed perhaps you may find something to latch onto for a little while until you find somebody with some grandiose mess you can work towards cleaning up;
when it comes to morals, sometimes i feel nearly bankrupt without hope of reliving my debt, but then the bank grants me some loan of talent based on my sterling line of credit, see everytime i've fucked up badly
some masterpiece of prose or verse spews from it. then i'm welcome to spend more that i don't have. like time spent making promises, promises that i'll be a better person someday in the future, present, or in passing,
i promise i'll be without fault or fault-lines. that my furrowed brow will not send magnitude-7.5 quakes across my facade of white lies, and black bathroom tile, and red counters and sink basins and bathmats and... damn, blood gets on everything, doesn't it?
remind me never to drink alone again. don't let me forget it, or at least, tell my secretary that i shouldn't forget... whatever it was i was supposed to be not forgetting. damn, did i hit my head or something? thoughts don't seem too clear lately, i can't even string together decent
sentences, let alone business plans, proposed acquisitions, or spin-off demands. i suggest someone take a little piece of my heart, now, maybe 1.5 to 2.8 percent, just a little bit of cardiac capital gains i guess. because it's only causing loss.
too many resources in my busy body devoted to mourning and emoting and expressing. in fact, there are too many devoted to breathing, and sleeping, and talking, and eating. i'll stop running my mouth off and run it off to a subsidiary. see what they can do. maybe brand myself with some advertising.
i'll be pabst-blue-ribbon-loreal-paris-cardinal-health-mr.-clean-alex. because drinking begets coke in little makeup cases, begets medical supplies for pumping back out whatever i'd gave it, begets the cleanup the day after by my staff of maids, doctors, and nurses.
thank god for private healthcare, and thank god for doc-patient confidentiality. lordie, i can't imagine what she would think of she knew how i handle rejection.
(not well, obviously.)