Summer’s over. Maybe I’ll get fat. Not walking around with my shirt off sunup to sundown every weekend. If you’re not in shape, try being in shape. Pussy just falls on you. I used to think girls liked my personality. Now I’ve come to the horrifying conclusion that I’m physically attractive. This means everything I think and believe is bullshit. My mind is merely tolerated. At least I don’t have a big wang.
Summer’s over and it’s getting cold and I want to go to bed at nine P.M. and huddle with my cat. Eat stews with parsnips in them. Drink two and a half glasses of inexpensive pinot noir and crawl under blankets. The only girls I want to see are whatever my dreaming brain creates to explain the feeling of my night dick rubbing the mattress. I don’t want to go out. Don’t want to get drunk. Don’t want to do cocaine and smoke cigarettes. I want a healthy balanced diet and a good book. This was prompted by it being slightly under seventy degrees today.
My hair’s going gray and my nuts often hurt for no reason. It takes four days to recover from leg day. Four days to recover from any workout. Some part of me is always sore. I’m always crabwalking. Hobbling around like a poorly made muppet. Hips creak like an old ship’s mast. I don’t want to go out and drink and chase pussy. I want a fuckin fireplace and an oriental rug. Big desk with one of those green lamps on it. An old typewriter maybe. I want kids. Not babies though, I want to skip the part where they shit on you. They run into my study happy to see me; crawl into bed on a cold night because they’re scared. I want to live in a cave with my cave wife and cave kids covered in the pelts of shit I killed.
I’m old and sick and cold and I just want to retire from busting my ass. I want money for free and trouble free relationships and a nice bowl of beef stew with parsnips in it. They’re sweet. Little cinnamony. Why isn’t this root vegetable more beloved.