The Pussy

Don’t Take Your Love to Town

She came home in at four in the morning. Passed out with a desk lamp blaring straight in her eyes. She’d been out riding a motorcycle with a male model who tends bar at (REDACTED). If you could cheat you would too. What you’re mad about is you can’t.

She went partying with cute boys. Good for her. Can’t be mad for her being the animal she is. I go to take out the trash and find some fucking Chinese fourteen year old bent over in front of me, what am I gonna I do. The problem is: women live in a world of Chinese fourteen year olds bent over. Cock onslaught out there. Literal god damn male models working at the boutique gentrification restaurant that serves lion meat. Tinder, full of comedians from TV.

I don’t want you to feel bad, I told her. It’s just that everything I felt for you got shut off like a light switch.

But I’m happy you had a good time.

A halfway attractive woman’s life: men falling out of the trees. Men so handsome your own face is a cruel joke. They’re six foot eight. Ride vintage Triumphs. Women, if your life is not like this: you’re ugly. I was gonna throw in that they speak five languages but who gives a shit. Only your face matters. Women are like us. I don’t dream about some worldly polyglot. I dream of a woman who sees past shallow things to fall in love with the special person I am. And she better be hot.

I’m mad that I don’t have a motorcycle. Jealous and inadequate. Some oaf from Kansas can get pussy back to his place from his bar. I wasted my life in an office. Sad that a thing I built up deflated so quick. But also relieved. Now back to normal life. Sit with the cat. Bed at ten PM while down the street men with chiseled faces get girls wet on the back of their Bonnevilles. Men without fulminant livers. I should get an Xbox.