at the shortstop with defamer.
my stomach is like a girlfriend. a really bad girlfriend. always there. always noticing. always judging. never fully happy.
at first you try to pretend that her dislikes are cute. but because you love her you pamper her whims. after a while you start believing the old axiom, no news is good news. as long as the ho keeps her trap shut everyones happy.
but then you roll the dice when things are going good. a slice of extra cheese pizza perhaps, or a forbidden bowl of chili and rice, or as in tonight’s bad choice – a coleman cooler tamale from a hustlin random mexican dude at the echo park divebar.
and she says you know i fucking hate tamales.
and she says you dont fucking know me AT ALL
then she says ALL THESE YEARS AND YOU DONT KNOW ANYTHING ABOUT ME ALL YOU DO IS USE ME ALL YOU DO IS ABUSE ME I HATE YOU I HATE YOU I HATE YOU
and you speed home to the bathroom and read some of this months maxim and you wash your hands and make some peas. but even a plastic knife full of peas only makes things worse. as if the girlfriend says I TOLD YOU I DONT WANT TO TALK TO YOU OR ANYONE.
so you run back to the head and read some ny observer. and you wash your hands and drink some water and she says MOTHERFUCKR I SAID FUCK YOU
and fuck you means fuck you so you read some fhm and its 2am you lay on your belly and watch rockstar super nova and almost automatically you open up a can of diet dr pepper and she says you really have no concept of what NO means do you?
so here it is 343am. and someone has established herself queen bitch but someone else has reminded everyone that although stomach pains can make people doubt everything including whether or not a road trip is a good idea in a 110k mile car – that theres only one person who wears the flannel pajamas in this house and its not the shreiking bitch or the belly.
its the blogger.
who is no longer full of shit.