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.
