ROTM Prompts 1.82.1E and 1.83.1C
Sit back, folks, it's going to be a bumpy ride!
The note on my door ended with a quote from a song:
"Now I've seen, tonight, how could I waste my time?
and I'll be on my way, and I won't be back
Because I've seen, tonight, what I've been warned about
You're just a boy, not a man, and I'm not coming back"
I’d been dumped via crappy song lyric? Holy shit. I thought that went out in the eighties. Hell, the last time I dumped someone by mix tape was…well, I don’t even think that people dumping people via mp3 were born yet, let’s put it that way.
The sad part is, I’d been considerate and dodged her phone calls for weeks. We were already broken up, as far as I was concerned. We didn’t have to have the talk - goddamn, I hate the talk - or the little confrontation - I hate that worse. But no, she had to get in the last word, even on paper, and punctuate it with this melodramatic crap, complete with - oh hell, she stole my cd.
Scanning the note again, I saw it was true, and she’d even noted that I’d miss the disc more than her. I don’t agree that it was pathetic, by the way. After I cleaned out my tequila, I wouldn’t miss either of them tonight, anyhow.
Glasses? I don’t need no steenkin’ glasses, I thought. What I need is to make a run to the liquor store. It was the last of my booze, so it was either go out or drink to the worm - which gave me another reason not to miss her, because “spineless worm” is just lazy writing.
I actually don’t like tequila, especially not straight, but it was leftover from a party or something, and I was fresh out of mixers. Luckily, I have a secret strategy for cases like these; I upended the bottle and took the longest, fastest drink I could. It tasted like ass, which I expected, so I drank another one, hoping to get my mind as far away from my skull as I could. I chased that shot of hell down with another, not stopping until I realized I was almost drowning and swallowed, coughing and gagging more out of hope that I could puke the sense of taste back into my mouth. No go, but I did start to feel a pleasant buzz in my head, and a stupid grin forming on my face, which lasted until I looked at my feet and realized they were coming up to meet me - fast.
later...
I enjoyed my ride on the carpet, but an unpleasant thought managed to swim up through the tequila. If I didn’t pull it together and get down to the bodega for beer, I was going to lose my buzz. Unacceptable. I was going to handle this like a man; an Irish man, with booze, poetry and self-pity, possibly with some loud singing for effect.
It made sense at the time.
I would like to point out to the jerks in my neighborhood that a classical education is never wasted. Also, Keats was clearly under the impression that Byron was Irish when he said: “how sweetly sad thy melody!/Attuning still the soul to tenderness, /As if soft Pity, with unusual stress, /Had touch'd her plaintive lute, and thou, being by, Hadst caught the tones, nor suffer'd them to die.” - and it’s not my damn fault the mutts around here bark when they hear a fine sad song.
“O'ershadowing sorrow doth not make thee less
Delightful: thou thy griefs dost dress
With a bright halo, shining beamily,
As when a cloud the golden moon doth veil,
Its sides are ting'd with a resplendent glow,
Through the dark robe oft amber rays prevail,
And like fair veins in sable marble flow….”
I was even quoting that when the goddamn yuppies that cruise the village these days got a uniform to tug on my sleeve. Imagine - calling art a disturbance!
“Still warble, dying swan! still tell the tale, The enchanting tale, the tale of pleasing woe.”
Yeah, well, not in my local bodega if you want to get sold to. No singing or no beer, apparently. I had no choice but to still the waters of poetry to get the water of life - and I really thought about leaving some other water on his alley wall, let me tell you! I can’t stand a guy with no poetry in his damn soul, but then I got a 5% heartbreak discount, so we were good. The muse speaks to us all in different ways.
The note on my door ended with a quote from a song:
"Now I've seen, tonight, how could I waste my time?
and I'll be on my way, and I won't be back
Because I've seen, tonight, what I've been warned about
You're just a boy, not a man, and I'm not coming back"
I’d been dumped via crappy song lyric? Holy shit. I thought that went out in the eighties. Hell, the last time I dumped someone by mix tape was…well, I don’t even think that people dumping people via mp3 were born yet, let’s put it that way.
The sad part is, I’d been considerate and dodged her phone calls for weeks. We were already broken up, as far as I was concerned. We didn’t have to have the talk - goddamn, I hate the talk - or the little confrontation - I hate that worse. But no, she had to get in the last word, even on paper, and punctuate it with this melodramatic crap, complete with - oh hell, she stole my cd.
Scanning the note again, I saw it was true, and she’d even noted that I’d miss the disc more than her. I don’t agree that it was pathetic, by the way. After I cleaned out my tequila, I wouldn’t miss either of them tonight, anyhow.
Glasses? I don’t need no steenkin’ glasses, I thought. What I need is to make a run to the liquor store. It was the last of my booze, so it was either go out or drink to the worm - which gave me another reason not to miss her, because “spineless worm” is just lazy writing.
I actually don’t like tequila, especially not straight, but it was leftover from a party or something, and I was fresh out of mixers. Luckily, I have a secret strategy for cases like these; I upended the bottle and took the longest, fastest drink I could. It tasted like ass, which I expected, so I drank another one, hoping to get my mind as far away from my skull as I could. I chased that shot of hell down with another, not stopping until I realized I was almost drowning and swallowed, coughing and gagging more out of hope that I could puke the sense of taste back into my mouth. No go, but I did start to feel a pleasant buzz in my head, and a stupid grin forming on my face, which lasted until I looked at my feet and realized they were coming up to meet me - fast.
later...
I enjoyed my ride on the carpet, but an unpleasant thought managed to swim up through the tequila. If I didn’t pull it together and get down to the bodega for beer, I was going to lose my buzz. Unacceptable. I was going to handle this like a man; an Irish man, with booze, poetry and self-pity, possibly with some loud singing for effect.
It made sense at the time.
I would like to point out to the jerks in my neighborhood that a classical education is never wasted. Also, Keats was clearly under the impression that Byron was Irish when he said: “how sweetly sad thy melody!/Attuning still the soul to tenderness, /As if soft Pity, with unusual stress, /Had touch'd her plaintive lute, and thou, being by, Hadst caught the tones, nor suffer'd them to die.” - and it’s not my damn fault the mutts around here bark when they hear a fine sad song.
“O'ershadowing sorrow doth not make thee less
Delightful: thou thy griefs dost dress
With a bright halo, shining beamily,
As when a cloud the golden moon doth veil,
Its sides are ting'd with a resplendent glow,
Through the dark robe oft amber rays prevail,
And like fair veins in sable marble flow….”
I was even quoting that when the goddamn yuppies that cruise the village these days got a uniform to tug on my sleeve. Imagine - calling art a disturbance!
“Still warble, dying swan! still tell the tale, The enchanting tale, the tale of pleasing woe.”
Yeah, well, not in my local bodega if you want to get sold to. No singing or no beer, apparently. I had no choice but to still the waters of poetry to get the water of life - and I really thought about leaving some other water on his alley wall, let me tell you! I can’t stand a guy with no poetry in his damn soul, but then I got a 5% heartbreak discount, so we were good. The muse speaks to us all in different ways.