(no subject)
When Jesus was my girl, lightning was my girl too. I think they were lesbians. Now, you may think that I was satisfied. What kind of man isn’t turned on by girl-on-girl action, eh? You may also think that I was a pimp, or something like that. I mean, which regular man is able to get Jesus and lightning to be his girls without some business involved? I totally rock catholic girls in your mind, and it’s a little bit present in my own mind, too. They are so willing. I am so powerful. I scare you so much.
But that is before you get to know me. This whole setting will feel completely wrong after just a couple of minutes in my company. After a while, you might even wonder if I just am not some kind of lesbian myself, enjoying the show as much as the next guy would. I mean, the girls are relatively fond of the cleancut, now are they not? Then, you’ll just try to be subtle and check out my chest, while talking about the latest Tarantino. Maybe she just tapes it. And then you’ll think about my voice, whistling in your ears like a growling bear. Maybe she simply has a recurrent cold, is all. And then you’ll see the not-so-timid hair on my cheeks and between my nose and upper lip. Oh, Hell, maybe she just turned into a he under the scalpel of some freak-o plastician who filled her with androgens, rock on.
And then it’ll appear to you. Clear as the sun coming back from his quickie behind the clouds with God knows who. Jesus is a hag. And so is lightning. And I won’t be scary as much as I used to be in the good ol days. I might even become a little funny and lose so much credibility. But I’ll still rock catholic girls to you, and that’s my favorite part of it all.
But that is before you get to know me. This whole setting will feel completely wrong after just a couple of minutes in my company. After a while, you might even wonder if I just am not some kind of lesbian myself, enjoying the show as much as the next guy would. I mean, the girls are relatively fond of the cleancut, now are they not? Then, you’ll just try to be subtle and check out my chest, while talking about the latest Tarantino. Maybe she just tapes it. And then you’ll think about my voice, whistling in your ears like a growling bear. Maybe she simply has a recurrent cold, is all. And then you’ll see the not-so-timid hair on my cheeks and between my nose and upper lip. Oh, Hell, maybe she just turned into a he under the scalpel of some freak-o plastician who filled her with androgens, rock on.
And then it’ll appear to you. Clear as the sun coming back from his quickie behind the clouds with God knows who. Jesus is a hag. And so is lightning. And I won’t be scary as much as I used to be in the good ol days. I might even become a little funny and lose so much credibility. But I’ll still rock catholic girls to you, and that’s my favorite part of it all.