Yeah, I know. You were talking to Scott. Well, not really talking. See you've got these boobs, right, and this nice ass, and so really you can as much talk to scott as negotiate with the guy whose gun is pointed at your head. You are, as they say, in his headlights. You look quizzical when he calls you a cat to someone else, and you don't even know yet how lost you really are, because fifteen minutes in you're already amazed at the number of foreign robot porn movies this guy has seen, he's even told you about his low-camera-angle-plus-hellman's mise-en-scene thesis, and you're just totally balled over by this tall & handsome, by this sexdork. Then he starts talking about fucking and you're probably gone. Three hours, three days later your knees are shaking and you don't know if you were tussling in bed with a man or the tokyo bullet train; the answer is both. You wanna talk about feelings? That's what I'm here for, cause you aren't goin to get anything but mayo-fuck--fuck from bullitt, from the man with the plan glinting out from D&G glasses. You wanna talk about how you feel ? I know how you feel, let's talk about it. Tell me about your childhood and all the movies you are embarassed to say you like. Tell me about your last vacation and how your dad met your mom. I'll listen, oh I'll listen just to you, like no one even existed. You know the funny thing, though? I'm still just fucking you with my eyes.


Two shots soco, two red wines. Two shots Jack, two guinness. Two unupdated blogs, two drunken rides through Somerville. One friend who pukes like a viking. Sometimes I'm so damn grateful that I live the life I have, and befriend the people I do.