what i wrote in my journal saturday night about my experience
with a random guy on the street that sorta knows Grace and proceeded to talk to us for like 15 minutes.
this is about AL, whom i met on the street the other night
last night was my favorite night here so far. running into crazy "Al" who knows everyone in the bronx and wants to get Grace to go see Journey with him cuz DAMN, is she impressed by his 50-year-old ill, you're like, my DAD's age cock and his ability to memorize pointless geographical facts of the entire world that mean nothing to anyone unless you're playing jeopardy or trivial pursuit.
take care of her, you better take care of her, isn't she beautiful, look at her! getting in my face, trying to live his Chaz Palmenteri wet dream of being in A Bronx Tale 2 if ONLY he had gotten that other guy elected. (what?) so many syllables spitting in my face this guy isn't even real, he's a cartoon, he's a typewriter, i can't even focus on him, and all i can do is keep staring into his yelling kisser, searching his eyes for the twinkle of hope that he's joking, because i don't want to stab anyone in the fucking neck unless they're trying to kill us or rape Grace or something that makes more sense for a self-defense plea than "he wanted to make sure i heard him the 3 fucking times he told me to take care of her, because it was my obligation as the man walking down the street with her, whoever i was, because i was the one who would be spending the rest of the night with her, and not him..."
the autistic schizophrenic jolly old pedophile on speed that had such an erection to talk to you that every fucking question he asked he cut you off in the middle of to answer, to try and answer it himself, cuz the sound of his voice makes him ejaculate every 5 minutes i can tell, i can tell, cuz he's so fucking hyper as he talks, look at him, rocking on the balls of his fucking feet, dancing with himself on a stage where there's not even an audience.
and jesus, would you get the fuck out of my face, i don't know you, and who DOES this to strangers? maybe i'm crazy for all he knows. i'll fucking kill him. i'll kill him if he doesn't back the fuck up out of MY oxygen with his drunken cab driver Sopranos monologue of what he'll do to me, the mechanic's tune-up of a lifetime he'll give me if i don't take care of her, look at her, look at her. what's the capital of pepper spray in your googley fucking eyeballs, bitch? and actually, actually AL, brazil is NOT the 4th most populated country in the world, it's not Al, it's not, it's the fucking 5th! go back home and memorize an encyclopedia from THIS century next time before you try to show off. the capital of Bangladesh is Dhaka! ask me another one, ask me another one! do i look like a fucking gameshow host?
maybe i'm gonna "take care of her" by escorting her the fuck away from you as soon as possible you fucking freak. this is what i get. this is what i get, isn't it? for not walking in the correct cock-blocker formation and pointing her toward the street instead of the buildings as she instructed me was an unspoken rule of strolling the streets of the Bronx with a girl. fuck. silly me. silly, silly me. what was i thinking?
this is about AL, whom i met on the street the other night
last night was my favorite night here so far. running into crazy "Al" who knows everyone in the bronx and wants to get Grace to go see Journey with him cuz DAMN, is she impressed by his 50-year-old ill, you're like, my DAD's age cock and his ability to memorize pointless geographical facts of the entire world that mean nothing to anyone unless you're playing jeopardy or trivial pursuit.
take care of her, you better take care of her, isn't she beautiful, look at her! getting in my face, trying to live his Chaz Palmenteri wet dream of being in A Bronx Tale 2 if ONLY he had gotten that other guy elected. (what?) so many syllables spitting in my face this guy isn't even real, he's a cartoon, he's a typewriter, i can't even focus on him, and all i can do is keep staring into his yelling kisser, searching his eyes for the twinkle of hope that he's joking, because i don't want to stab anyone in the fucking neck unless they're trying to kill us or rape Grace or something that makes more sense for a self-defense plea than "he wanted to make sure i heard him the 3 fucking times he told me to take care of her, because it was my obligation as the man walking down the street with her, whoever i was, because i was the one who would be spending the rest of the night with her, and not him..."
the autistic schizophrenic jolly old pedophile on speed that had such an erection to talk to you that every fucking question he asked he cut you off in the middle of to answer, to try and answer it himself, cuz the sound of his voice makes him ejaculate every 5 minutes i can tell, i can tell, cuz he's so fucking hyper as he talks, look at him, rocking on the balls of his fucking feet, dancing with himself on a stage where there's not even an audience.
and jesus, would you get the fuck out of my face, i don't know you, and who DOES this to strangers? maybe i'm crazy for all he knows. i'll fucking kill him. i'll kill him if he doesn't back the fuck up out of MY oxygen with his drunken cab driver Sopranos monologue of what he'll do to me, the mechanic's tune-up of a lifetime he'll give me if i don't take care of her, look at her, look at her. what's the capital of pepper spray in your googley fucking eyeballs, bitch? and actually, actually AL, brazil is NOT the 4th most populated country in the world, it's not Al, it's not, it's the fucking 5th! go back home and memorize an encyclopedia from THIS century next time before you try to show off. the capital of Bangladesh is Dhaka! ask me another one, ask me another one! do i look like a fucking gameshow host?
maybe i'm gonna "take care of her" by escorting her the fuck away from you as soon as possible you fucking freak. this is what i get. this is what i get, isn't it? for not walking in the correct cock-blocker formation and pointing her toward the street instead of the buildings as she instructed me was an unspoken rule of strolling the streets of the Bronx with a girl. fuck. silly me. silly, silly me. what was i thinking?