What really matters

I'll tell you a little story. A man goes out to the pub, he has a few drinks. Some mouthy git at the bar, most probably spurred on by the bugle, actually, definitely hurried along by the Bolivian, the yayo AND the white starts giving people a hard time. The man has had enough. Without a word, he strides to the jukebox and enters at least a nicker.


On comes VAN HALEN, and everyone rocks so very hard that the altercation is completely forgotten.


Lesson of the story: Real men don't fight, real men ROCK.

Like being divebombed by a Stuka.

Wow, so close and yet so far. A shiny devil on the end of the phone. A Siren that beckons when inebriated. So easy to remember the good times and not the bad, is that some hideous part of the psyche reserved for these incredibly specific situations?

Why is it that the girl who rips your heart out is the only one you think about? And why is it that we males really live up to our stereotypes? I suppose that that is why it is called a stereotype in the first place, they must have basis in fact. It is that fine line between love and lust that creates the differences in the species. You say you love me, therefore I think it is only natural to make, albeit hokey and trying, sexual advances.

A man just means this as an extension of love! Surely, as they say, there is no smoke without fire? What is love without lust? We do not live in some perpetual fantasy of chivalry! What I am trying to get at is the fact that I am, as many men have been before, and as even many will be in the future, an arse.

I just wish it was more like the song...

"And then I go and spoil it all by saying something stupid like I want to have sex with you..."

Too soon, too damn soon.

You

You. It took so long, it took the intervention of others. Was I happy? Of course. Did I hate you? Most definitely. But was I happy? Of course. The pain, the frustration, the release. Sweat, shivers, moist flesh rubbing together.

And the lies. So many, many lies! I lied to you every day, with every breath! I don't think the truth oft passed my lips. Did I care? Of course. I hurt you because you hurt me. An eye for an arse, a tooth for a thigh. What strange people we were, what depraved acts we carried out. In the cold light of day it all just seems so pathetic.

And then it ended, not once but twice! How terrible is that? I gave you the best years, and what do I have to show for it? A gaping red hole where my heart once was. Torn out by badly painted nails on ugly fingers, nothing left but a valley of self-pity and worthless ramblings. It is no coincidence that that was probably the fulcrum of my life, but as the man once said, hindsight is always 20/20.

Ambition, what a joke.

Meat

Come one, come all, to this pathetic orgy of self-loathing, narcissism and bad taste.

Useless meat. Flesh, hanging in strips, obscures what used to be. Lazy and foetid: you used to give so much pleasure! Cold and dirty, the feeling is all wrong.

Tactile sense- ignorance in full. Lumpy, hard to the touch, this great heart bursts.

All over your face.