I ain't afraid to roll in the bottom of things...

sorry tim.

I’ve always had a predication for the company of emotionally unavailable men.

The half wits, fuck wits, dim wits, dumb wits, the poor man’s Kerouac, those pansies all cooped up in their own captivity, the morally bankrupt barfly, repeat offenders and all the others that I did when I was bored and stupid and willing enough to spread my legs for.

But, please don’t be misunderstood. I might be somewhat of a sure thing, but I ain't no trick so, on occasion, I'd make them earn it.
I had one speak to me in Keats the day Derek left and I needed a justification for taking on a bed partner.
Another, I insisted he kiss the security guard at Rite-Aid when we were buying condoms. The crazy motherfucker did it all right. And I remember cackling like I was listening in on a drunken discussion about lost love that was right on schedule in some cross town bar.

I bailed on him and went over to Will’s to get high instead.

And another. He was some hot-blooded lay with shitty taste in movies. His name escapes me. I don’t think I ever really knew it. Either way, I let him go down on me for a good long time, so perhaps the recollection of his name seems like a good trade off for now.
Sure. I’ve had them all. And there may have been three or four sweethearts in there somewhere, only I can’t really remember their names either.

This is from a past life.

So, as I was saying, I love men. I have all of their records.

Yet, I’m here on the floor alone.
The beer ran out hours ago. But the vinyl is, indeed, agreeably still sweet and warm, human.
It makes for Keith Moon’s resonance undoubtedly much more spectacular.
I tend to choose vinyl these days.

Nevertheless, I can’t get this one out of my head. I see his high heart and broken soul standing tall and proud in this here record player to my left. Looks like there is just another analog girl living in a digital world dancing around in her old party dresses, going crazy in her room again.
Likewise, there are three provisional little things I’ve recently learned about this little life of mine:

Number one: a morning of awkwardness is far better than a night of loneliness.
Number two: if you have to ask for it, you’re probably too old to have it.
Number three: I probably won’t go down in history, but I might go down on your brother.

And so here we are. Surrounded by those records that keep getting on and cans of Budweiser that keep running out - otherwise known as the very edge of the world and I never really liked heights.
Still, we are all so desperate to feel. Desperate to feel something and just “not get bored”. So desperate and bored of our own stupid boredom that we keep falling into each other and eventually fucking each other to the end of our days.

Best to ignore the shit and keep dancing.