Midnight Crisis
How many men have been in your sacred hole?
V.A.S.T.
My predicament sucks; or should I say, I suck in its stead. So here we go, says I upon my last glass for the night: I want the Duke I can’t have, I fuck the Shaman that broke my heart, and yet another, the lovely Hunter, who broke the heart of many others (I guess, it is some sort of retaliation). There is even a rhythm to it, though VAST counterfeits with some quality depression on the stereo. Ain’t that a Broadway special?
This is not the end of the story, still. There is, of course, the Poet, who in his drunken nightmares sees me as a mother of his children; the Prophet, who somehow finds a place in my heart amidst his incomprehensible visions of Armageddon; the Painter, who owes me a dinner and a mural; the Psycho with the blond curls and the stone cold face, who idolizes my obscenity…
My life seems to be sewn out the patches of those grim images, never lasting, ever changing and somehow constant like the abstinence of a junkie.
I am indeed a junkie. A fucking addict on cheap excitement, looking for love – as cheesy as it sounds - “in all the wrong places”. Guess this realization comes in every time veritas strikes me in between my vino experiments. Lovely…. But why am I doing this, anyway?
I don’t know.
Probably, I just LOOVE a good story and I can’t miss it, even at my own expense.
But I know this: while the Duke is fucking his respectable wife somewhere out in the vast British empire, and while the Shaman is screwing his ex on whatever drug you could name, and the Hunter’s still hunting the next pussy to fill, I am here. And I fucking will be, until the show’s over, or at least until the story starts to make more sense.
For now, I will just stick to the wine, thank you. And cheers!
V.A.S.T.
My predicament sucks; or should I say, I suck in its stead. So here we go, says I upon my last glass for the night: I want the Duke I can’t have, I fuck the Shaman that broke my heart, and yet another, the lovely Hunter, who broke the heart of many others (I guess, it is some sort of retaliation). There is even a rhythm to it, though VAST counterfeits with some quality depression on the stereo. Ain’t that a Broadway special?
This is not the end of the story, still. There is, of course, the Poet, who in his drunken nightmares sees me as a mother of his children; the Prophet, who somehow finds a place in my heart amidst his incomprehensible visions of Armageddon; the Painter, who owes me a dinner and a mural; the Psycho with the blond curls and the stone cold face, who idolizes my obscenity…
My life seems to be sewn out the patches of those grim images, never lasting, ever changing and somehow constant like the abstinence of a junkie.
I am indeed a junkie. A fucking addict on cheap excitement, looking for love – as cheesy as it sounds - “in all the wrong places”. Guess this realization comes in every time veritas strikes me in between my vino experiments. Lovely…. But why am I doing this, anyway?
I don’t know.
Probably, I just LOOVE a good story and I can’t miss it, even at my own expense.
But I know this: while the Duke is fucking his respectable wife somewhere out in the vast British empire, and while the Shaman is screwing his ex on whatever drug you could name, and the Hunter’s still hunting the next pussy to fill, I am here. And I fucking will be, until the show’s over, or at least until the story starts to make more sense.
For now, I will just stick to the wine, thank you. And cheers!
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