Sympathy for the Lover

I've decided that since I have nothing else going on in terms of employment or relationship, I might as well invest in some ingestive recreational entertainment. If no one wants to talk turkey with me and no chicks want to make out, I might as well seek solace in contraband. People don't realize that they can--and have--saved me from the lure of a mild high. All I need is attention, an ear, a conversation a day. Instead I have to negotiate like a UN representative to get a sweatshirt back through back channels. At least I didn't come out as the dopey one on that exchange. US mail would have been fine, as would a drive by toss out of a Honda Mini Van window. If she's gonna involve CBS, I might as well involve SPD. It's the same personal betrayal. Of course I won't, because I'm cool. Point is made, however and joke is had between CBS and PK and probably 50 other people who love pathetic maneuvers in the context of gossip. Now wait until I ask for my beloved Wilco CD's back. Maybe I'll skip those and cut my losses. $25 worth of CDs are worth the spared misery-- as, ironically, lyrics on those disc might allude. Plus, I think I burned both already. And I gave them to her without worry of hearing them again. As long as she listens every now and then, they're her's. If not, she knows my mailbox is on the left of the doorway. If she returns them, I will reward her with a $1,000 shopping spree at the mall as soon as I reliquidate some of my 20 year holdings. And I won't even ask her to kiss me. Bump around, fuck around and wink here and there, and honest as the day is long. I'd make her pick out stuff for me, however, which would destroy her ego. I saw that develop in Ft. Worth. But I'd make it worth her while once my bag is full. I'll make her fuller. Then drink it out of her most intimate slit.