Go Your Own Way, There’s No Hope

Go Your Own Way, There’s No Hope

                It was hard to turn down the bagels.  The donuts, the coffee.  But most importantly, it was tough to say no to the cigarettes.

                I’m not an asshole, or a fuck boy.  I’m not a user.  But I do smoke the most expensive cigarettes on the market, and I’m not talking about American Spirits, which are horrible.  You can spend an hour or so trying to smoke an American Spirit and still fail.  They go out as soon as you light them, and forget trying to get one lit while there’s wind or if you have only matches – heaven forbid.  No, I’m talking about the square packs that say “Export ‘A’” on them.  They cost slightly more than the Spirits, on average, and that’s because they’re better.  They taste better, the tobacco quality is better, and they still have enough chemicals to KEEP MY FUCKING CIGARETTE LIT!

                Like I said, I’m not an asshole.  But she kept showing up to my work to hand me my $12 packs of cigarettes when her Crohn’s  wasn’t acting up.  She’d cook me dinner after she picked me up from work.  I’d drink her entire bottle of Jameson and a couple of her IPA’s before I gave her seven or eight orgasms or so.  She was an awful lay.  She’d do this thrusting thing with her vagina that really bothered me.  Every time I’d get a decent rhythm she’d take over and ruin it.  I hated making her orgasm.  It was one thing that her tube was so narrow that I couldn’t get long enough since she was restricting my girth, but it was quite another that she just kept coming and squeezing the shit out of my cock.  I swear, she almost circumcised me.

                And then she’d have these flare ups with her joints and all the nurses would tell  me how sweet I was for driving her to the hospital and pushing her around in her wheelchair and being there for her.  I didn’t mind, and I liked being there when she needed me and all.  But one day, in the middle of one of her flare ups, she was trying to project confidence or some bullshit and she looked up at me from her wheelchair and said to me:
                “I’d say you’re like a generous six.”  Then she smiled.   Little shit.
                “What’d you say?”  I couldn’t believe it.
                “You heard me,” she said and smiled again like an impish five year-old, hell bent on causing mischief in its kindergarten class.

                “Who the fuck do you think you are, Donald Trump?” I asked, outraged.  “Did you just rank me on a fucking 1-10 scale?”

                “Mmmhmm.”
                “That’s it,” I said.  We were on a ramp at the time and I just let go.  She screamed as she picked up kinetic energy toward the bottom and hurtled into a pile of autumn leaves.

                Okay, so that’s totally not what happened.  I would never do something like that, but seriously – what the fuck is up with young women these days?  Even wheel chair girl is looking up at me and ordering me to roll her around like I’m an Oompa Loompa and she’s the blueberry girl while telling me I’m a generous six?

                Just go your own way, jack off to internet porn.  Get a sex doll.  I don’t know.  There’s no hope anymore, I swear.