Fell asleep writing this …
Its 12.15am. Monday.
My wife is probably elbow deep in the vagina of a 17-year-old on her third fatherless bastard while I’m home watching Debbie Does Dallas and thinking of a lissome stripper who can tune a pole like a silk scarf riding the wind.
If you think I’m horny you’re wrong. If you bet that I’m drunk you’d be homeless; nevermind the bottle of tequila nearby that is making bonita eyes at me. I am restless. I want to roll through the desolation that is downtown with its garbage piles and fat, resigned, baton-wielding grannies; maybe stop and gamble with the fellas at Regent and King Streets or knock dominoes with the others a little further up. Or maybe drop in at Palm Court where I can see one drunken minister or another chasing teenagers who attend the same private schools that his kids do.
These are the kinds of experiences that might add colour to the cog-like existence you call your life. Is it time to obliterate the morass that has fevered your brain into accepting that your only due is a cheque, a Facebook account and aborted fuckdates because you do not tote a Blackberry? Damn right it is. It is time to beta test that motherfucker you want to be.
I know we have to return to the plantation in a matter of hours …
V_V