Why Not?
In a few short months I have changed from a server at a corporate restaurant, bieding my time in suburbia, living with my mom; to one of the staple bartenders in the most popular spot in Richmond. Much has changed in my life but yet deep down I still feel miserably the same.
Hippie chic, autumn red hair, Swift bangs, scarfs and boots, smart girl swagger, and the backbone to stomp out little boys' hearts. She swoons like the rest of em when I pass even though she denies it. She dated a guy with whom I work with; who I despise. I had already started the wheels in motion before I was turned off by that fun fact; but I fucked her out of spite, to save that ammunition for a later engagement. Wired on molly I murdered her vagina and she loved me for it. She looks up at me in a dead head bar that she probably thought was really fucking cool; "you can't fall in love with me". If I was drunk instead of rolling I would have definitely laughed in her face. I so clearly and eloquently told her to pump her brakes, I'm no little boy. I don't give a fuck about you or your pussy. I have her in the palm of my hand and yet she still manages to peer down her nose at me, like the rest of the world. This kid still trolls to her spot and literally cries his eyes out to her. And the fucker thinks he's on the same level as me, that I've somehow stolen his glory. Its funny how smart people can be so dumb once they have convinced themselves of something. I can't wait till he pushes me far enough for me to fling that in his face. I know he'll cry but i secretly hope he'll take a swing at me so I can put this body i've labored for years on to good use.
Ive probably twenty or so numbers in a shoe box from work. Some of them are from dimes. Ive never asked for any of them. All it took was eye contact and a smile. Id rather use them to wipe my ass then text them. More profound is the haunting I had while working. Slinging drinks for hours on end. Packed house, band blareing, and the drunk herd is crashing upon our bar. Dimes sprinkled about, gushing out of their tiny dresses, with their painted faces. All they get is sidelined glances as I try to intoxicate the entire building. But that little brunette didn't see me thank god. I stopped in my tracks and thought it was Kate. I was terrified to see her or even talk to her. The rage consumed me as i realized it wasn't her. It has to be like 4 years now, four fucking years after six months and this is how I act, how I think. Her, and all the miserable cunts in high school; this is why i shit on women now.
Hippie chic, autumn red hair, Swift bangs, scarfs and boots, smart girl swagger, and the backbone to stomp out little boys' hearts. She swoons like the rest of em when I pass even though she denies it. She dated a guy with whom I work with; who I despise. I had already started the wheels in motion before I was turned off by that fun fact; but I fucked her out of spite, to save that ammunition for a later engagement. Wired on molly I murdered her vagina and she loved me for it. She looks up at me in a dead head bar that she probably thought was really fucking cool; "you can't fall in love with me". If I was drunk instead of rolling I would have definitely laughed in her face. I so clearly and eloquently told her to pump her brakes, I'm no little boy. I don't give a fuck about you or your pussy. I have her in the palm of my hand and yet she still manages to peer down her nose at me, like the rest of the world. This kid still trolls to her spot and literally cries his eyes out to her. And the fucker thinks he's on the same level as me, that I've somehow stolen his glory. Its funny how smart people can be so dumb once they have convinced themselves of something. I can't wait till he pushes me far enough for me to fling that in his face. I know he'll cry but i secretly hope he'll take a swing at me so I can put this body i've labored for years on to good use.
Ive probably twenty or so numbers in a shoe box from work. Some of them are from dimes. Ive never asked for any of them. All it took was eye contact and a smile. Id rather use them to wipe my ass then text them. More profound is the haunting I had while working. Slinging drinks for hours on end. Packed house, band blareing, and the drunk herd is crashing upon our bar. Dimes sprinkled about, gushing out of their tiny dresses, with their painted faces. All they get is sidelined glances as I try to intoxicate the entire building. But that little brunette didn't see me thank god. I stopped in my tracks and thought it was Kate. I was terrified to see her or even talk to her. The rage consumed me as i realized it wasn't her. It has to be like 4 years now, four fucking years after six months and this is how I act, how I think. Her, and all the miserable cunts in high school; this is why i shit on women now.