It’s Over Between Us

photo by Terry Lucas, via flickr creative commons

It’s over between us, she says. She’s mad about this thing again. Where are the girls who don’t dredge up old shit. Just because it’s time; you haven’t fucked up in a while. Girls who don’t make you prove it. Girls want you to love them but not so much it’s clear they can do better. Listen: I love you, cunt. Leave it alone.

I’m tainted by the the manosphere. I think it’s a “shit test.” My internet peers hate women but just want a wife and kids. You stay home I go work. Saturday I cut grass in the cul de sac while you occupy yourself with weaving. But women work now. Jobs pay half as much. We have the same money but the work just multiplied. And besides you’re fat and you hate me so I might as well just jerk off into other people till I’m dead. A bad belief system but what else is there.

Meanwhile girls ask where are all the good men. Smart funny stable tall handsome rich men with no ex wives and kids. Well where are the big tits big ass perfect teeth child’s face Asians. The ones who turned 18 today and aren’t already a side piece for Vincent Gallo or Devendra fucking Banhart. Where are the girls who play chess at strong expert level. Any level. Where are the girls who identify hummingbirds based on a vermillion versus magenta gorget. Its neck’s 3/8ths of an inch thick and she can tell watching it drink from my neighbor’s hyacinth at 20 feet. Or at least, where is the girl who thinks anything. About any topic. She was it. It’s over between us.

Well good luck out there, numbnuts. I don’t need you. I’m a 40 year old male secretary and I go to bed at 9PM and I still shred two new pieces of ass a month. Inner life is sadness, dreading the morning, scrutinizing my widows peak; watch my eyeballs turn permanently red like I’ve always just had an airbag deploy in my face. Giant scrotum; weird bulky potato nuts. Dick a shriveled blue acorn at temperatures below one hundred eight degrees. While my nuts expand, expand, seething and squirming like a gypsy moth tent in the trees.

Face coming to resemble a bad Halloween mask, body unmistakably dying and it wasn’t much to begin with. I consider myself smart but at this age smart better mean money. A professorship. Something cool a girl can tell her parents and her cunt friends. Anyway I still shred pussy so you better keep your ass in check. Don’t make waves; I’m not afraid of the punks you date in Texas. See if they can write three paragraphs about the skin of their balls at 6:30 on a Monday morning. Cut it down and down. See if they keep you interested with something that’s not money. They talk about football. They wear white tube socks. They are white tube socks.

I can take you or leave you. Made peace with my genes being extinguished. Dying alone. Living at fifty, sixty in this same – I was going to say squalid apartment but there are flowers in the park. Good neighbors. Redtails, goshawks, owls, a kestrel. Many hummingbirds. Woodpeckers thrushes robins blue jays; mockingbirds, of course, but also still song sparrows. An unkindness of ravens who have words. Butterflies, gophers, fat underage Mexican teen cunt cracks in yoga pants. All this when merely the clouds would be enough.

I’ll never get married. Never have children. I’ll suffer and die alone and I’ve made peace with this so go fuck yourself with it’s over between us. You emotional terrorist. It’s over between me and the fucking planet. I love you baby but don’t push me. What holds people together anymore. All I can do is tell you take a fucking walk. I’ll fuck a hummingbird.

Tags: hummingbirds