Wino Grody and Her Personality Disorders
If Wino Grody had a little more awareness, she might be the type to off himself. Wino Grody is gross, so would never think to do the romantic thing like swim off into the blackness of the ocean, never to return. Wino Grody was all cigarette butts, jars of piss arranged around the bed in a way that if you looked with just the right amount of blur in your vision could reflect the light in a way that was nothing short of lovely.
If he were more self aware, perhaps he would lay down on those train tracks or run in front of the bus. "WE were talking about enthusiasm and everyone wanting not to die", thought grody, "stupid new age philosophical hippies." This was back at the bar, just before Wino stumbled out onto the street and wretched up that fiery liquid...
oh, uh, grody..
Sometime, sometime, long ago, I don't know maybe Wino was born that way, without a mo f'n care in the world, well not caring anyway. Seeming like caring was a sissy thing to do. Never a feeling, just wild impulse, or a bundle of jagged tremors. So, back to more of the damn meetings, the cort ordered treatments. It all seemed intolerable, and pointless. Really, what's the point. Wino lived to drink. Aspirations? well, those would be the next bottle, ok, work a day, in the factory, actually on the all night shift. Sometimes Wino could get some speed from Polly, and then wino was much better at the assembly line. work to live live to drink. obliteration, someone wino used to know, backk in the day from those Hollywood nights used to call it the cult of self annhialation-all that without any intention of ending it all, or any awarenes of self suffering, just blank, like a fucking rock.
yeah, but anyways, Wino Grody is a wino. Wino grody has no hair, no, actually has nice long blonde hair and big titts. wino grody has no brain cells, and where she lost her bra is beyond her, ok back to the bank card, pulling into the drive way, scratching some crust out from under her armpit, distracted, stopping just short of driving over into the ditch on the side of the driveway to the parking lot, car lurching almost stalling, damn fucking fucking shitty transmission.
As Wino Grody stepped out of the car and onto the gravel, she realized that she was in her prim, floral print with the white collar, school teacher's dress, and she was wearing her kelly green strappy sandals. Her nephew is still there sitting at the bar with his friends. She looks at his big blue baby doll eyes, and his pretty blond hair. His friend George is a big guy, and they turn around to welcome grody back.
"Hey Grody, want a cig? Have another Makers"
Grody saunters up to the bar, feeling like Stella in a streetcar named desire. It's dim here in the bar. she sits down next to the boys and says, "don't mind if I do".
If he were more self aware, perhaps he would lay down on those train tracks or run in front of the bus. "WE were talking about enthusiasm and everyone wanting not to die", thought grody, "stupid new age philosophical hippies." This was back at the bar, just before Wino stumbled out onto the street and wretched up that fiery liquid...
oh, uh, grody..
Sometime, sometime, long ago, I don't know maybe Wino was born that way, without a mo f'n care in the world, well not caring anyway. Seeming like caring was a sissy thing to do. Never a feeling, just wild impulse, or a bundle of jagged tremors. So, back to more of the damn meetings, the cort ordered treatments. It all seemed intolerable, and pointless. Really, what's the point. Wino lived to drink. Aspirations? well, those would be the next bottle, ok, work a day, in the factory, actually on the all night shift. Sometimes Wino could get some speed from Polly, and then wino was much better at the assembly line. work to live live to drink. obliteration, someone wino used to know, backk in the day from those Hollywood nights used to call it the cult of self annhialation-all that without any intention of ending it all, or any awarenes of self suffering, just blank, like a fucking rock.
yeah, but anyways, Wino Grody is a wino. Wino grody has no hair, no, actually has nice long blonde hair and big titts. wino grody has no brain cells, and where she lost her bra is beyond her, ok back to the bank card, pulling into the drive way, scratching some crust out from under her armpit, distracted, stopping just short of driving over into the ditch on the side of the driveway to the parking lot, car lurching almost stalling, damn fucking fucking shitty transmission.
As Wino Grody stepped out of the car and onto the gravel, she realized that she was in her prim, floral print with the white collar, school teacher's dress, and she was wearing her kelly green strappy sandals. Her nephew is still there sitting at the bar with his friends. She looks at his big blue baby doll eyes, and his pretty blond hair. His friend George is a big guy, and they turn around to welcome grody back.
"Hey Grody, want a cig? Have another Makers"
Grody saunters up to the bar, feeling like Stella in a streetcar named desire. It's dim here in the bar. she sits down next to the boys and says, "don't mind if I do".