You Said Not To Write About You
April 29, 2012 § Leave a comment
And I said something glib about how there was nothing to write about, so not to worry. Because, at the time, I just wanted you out of my house. Your head was still full of hair dye that you refused to wash out, and with the combination of that and the nail polish you seemed to be using as deodorant, I couldn’t stop vomiting.
All the boys in the world want to think they are special. But there I go thinking it’s just about boys. I know I’ve been wishing people would write songs about me since the first time I sucked a musician’s cock. All the people in the world want to think they are special. Worth mentioning. Worth saying something about.
It’s why I love going to psychics, head tingling as they hold onto my hand, telling me more about me and what’s going to happen. We likely both know, this psychic and I, that all that’s really going to happen is the same stuff that’s already been happening. Her cat is going to keep sitting on the same spot on the dusty velvet sofa, she’s going to keep sitting in the same stoop waiting for people to pass by so she can take ten dollars, and I’m going to keep sitting on dicks. Yet, for right then I get to pay her to just talk about me. And she does it. And because of what she says, I feel like I’m worth talking about.
You were worth talking about, which you probably knew. From your desire to be a lesbian to your kabahlic system of power, to the way you kept walking city streets without your shoes, you knew I would want to write something about you.
But, chill the fuck out. I told you I wouldn’t. I just wanted you to know, since you’re reading this, that you are worth something, you crazy motherfucker. You’re worth talking and writing and thinking about.