I haven't had much ambition since 1999 when I lived in a crap ass apartment (the plumber finally fixed the toilet and the problem was a rubber duckie, I shit you not) in the boondocks of Wise County. I was a reporter, op ed columnist, proofreader, typesetter and photographer for The Bridgeport Index. There never was much news to cover, just the occasional spelling bee and heated city council meeting, so I would clock in each morning then go home, have sex with myself or my boyfriend from Lawton, Oklahoma whenever he deigned to visit. Ausgezeichnet. Wahnsinnig. Liebling. Sicher. Warum nicht? Lo siento. My Gemini sun Libra moon Leo rising boyfriend is texting me while I type this story. There are secrets between us I'll never spill but we both love us some Nutella from the jar. Thus, we work as a romantic sexual intellectual erotic congenial couple.
In 1999 I pretty much lived on Tostitos and pickled jalapeno slices from the jar and Red Dog beer. Sometimes I snapped into a Slim Jim. Other things were going on, it wasn't all fun in the sun, but I'll save those stories for another day. The only point I wish to make is this: magic happens hard and fast and you don't have to be enfranchised with a silver spoon up your butt to realize that the carnival happens to us all. Well. No. It doesn't. Some motherfuckers fabricate the carnival. Their carnival is indeed synthetic rather than authentic. There are no lights no purple plush boa constrictors no candy apples no Tilt A Whirl star swirl disco for the terminally spiritually unkempt. What do I mean by that? I'll tell you in another life when we are both Ch-Ch-Chia Pets. I'm lacking Texan American ambition but my carnival is more real than your bleeding pinky finger (your great-grandmother warned you not to tease her malcontent poodle).
Einfach Geil!!! The Gemini is also a native Texan but he grew his balls in Iraq and Germany. His Mustang beats your BMW to a bloody pulp. Don't try. Who said that? Bukowski said that. Hypocrite. He tried his fucking ass off.
In 1999 I pretty much lived on Tostitos and pickled jalapeno slices from the jar and Red Dog beer. Sometimes I snapped into a Slim Jim. Other things were going on, it wasn't all fun in the sun, but I'll save those stories for another day. The only point I wish to make is this: magic happens hard and fast and you don't have to be enfranchised with a silver spoon up your butt to realize that the carnival happens to us all. Well. No. It doesn't. Some motherfuckers fabricate the carnival. Their carnival is indeed synthetic rather than authentic. There are no lights no purple plush boa constrictors no candy apples no Tilt A Whirl star swirl disco for the terminally spiritually unkempt. What do I mean by that? I'll tell you in another life when we are both Ch-Ch-Chia Pets. I'm lacking Texan American ambition but my carnival is more real than your bleeding pinky finger (your great-grandmother warned you not to tease her malcontent poodle).
Einfach Geil!!! The Gemini is also a native Texan but he grew his balls in Iraq and Germany. His Mustang beats your BMW to a bloody pulp. Don't try. Who said that? Bukowski said that. Hypocrite. He tried his fucking ass off.
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