Gears of sunset

I’ve only been in love twice. Once with a girl and another with a ghost. Both ended the same way; with me feeling like the toilet paper used on the ass of a man who ate chili and chased it with milk. Come to think of it, I felt worse then the feces stained toilet paper, because at least that man appreciated what the toilet paper had done for him. Regardless, the girl found a man, and the ghost got a new haunting ground. They both still call, but our conversations seem less charming and more of a hassle now. Like a day old hicky on a job interview. I’m debating whether or not I care about them anymore, in the intimate sense of ex-lovers. I used to be a romantic, but now I think love is outdated and overused. Love in the sense of meeting someone for lunch, holding their hand on top the table while waiting for food, and knowing that when the food does come, you won’t need to ask to share, the two entrees, your bacon burger, her fish tacos, will be one big meal, then returning home to a comfortable and unassuming sit on the couch for television and sporadic kissing.
The girl I loved was gorgeous. The perfect pair of legs leading up to a cooter that made me forget my fathers birthday, ignore the phone calls of friends, and spend what little money I had on her vices. That later became my vices, that later became the reason I got mugged in the hallway of the Hilton hotel.
The ghost, well see, I’ve never met her. She’s from new york and I’m never going back to that city. Much to dirty and cigarettes are priced too high. She’s gorgeous too, but in a more grungy, punk rock sort of way. When we first started talking 3 years back she swore she’d never touch drugs, but she just got out of rehab and got her stomach pumped. I guess losing that kid and her fiancé must of done a number on her. She swears I’ve always been the one, but I’ve changed.

I’ve been writing for an hour, ran through a bottle of wine and just got a text from a girl who is probably be the new albatross. She’s hot, perfect breasts, I like her voice. Fuck I sound like a some lower case Hank Moody. I’m not. The bottle is almost done and my attention turns to face book. This was suppose to be me making peace with love. This was suppose to be me saying goodbye to writing about girls. A man can only write about girls for so long, he’s got to mature. He’s got to write about adult stuff. Like…politics?

This is a nice progression thou. With the right type of eyes, you can see where I got drunk. Right around the part where I say cooter, it took me 15 minutes to decide how to say pussy, without saying pussy.
Cunt sounded harsh
Vagina sounded sterile
I’ll text the girl back now, I miss her. I hope she hasn’t let anyone touch her.
Love is full of broken glass.