Categories > Original > Drama > Lola
We didn't talk on the ride home, that stupid awkward silence enveloping us like French whores in silk sheets. I wanted to light a cigarette so badly, but Ethan hated smoke, so I nervously tapped it repeatedly with an irritated finger.
"You can stop that anytime now."
I bit my lower lip in frustration.
I figured, "You're in my car, you're in the bad mood, and you're acting like a pussy." but I kept my mouth shut.
After what seemed like decades, I dropped Ethan off at his place, immediately driving away without saying good-bye. I'm a dick, I know.
I immediately lit up, taking a couple long drags while trying to sort out the anonymous author.
What was their name? Who were they?
Their work was interesting, guttural and harsh, yet elegant. An angel with dirty wings with an anchor tattoo on their arm.
I began to ponder, why did Hunter have it? How long did he have it for? Did he have a Rolodex with them? Yeah, first things first, I have to identify the writer.
I took a few more drags before chucking the remainder out of the window.
My hands shook, such anticipation over such a silly matter, I bet that is what Bukowski felt at the beginning of some of his essays, his sex essays oozing and sopping with delicate smut from a dirty old man perspective...sheer genius.
Bukowski wasn't for everyone, you had to be either a tough as nails woman to like him, or a straight up "Man's Man" to enjoy him.
I was neither really, I don't know why I was drawn to his work, I just remember my mother reading an entry of his from "Love is a dog from hell" compilation volume.
She also got me into smoking, by age 13 I was sucking down 2 packs a day, and chugging lattes like a fiend.
Good ole Mom.
Dad never really liked us, he tended to keep to himself when he wasn't busy banging his secretary Rose Arthur.
I caught them once, and he chased me down the hallway into the living room, pinned me down on the floor and made me swear that I kept my mouth shut.
He said, "I made you boy, and I can unmake you."
I just remember nodding and whimpering.
So what can an only child do? Immerse yourself in others pain, let them tell it how it is, how it feels, how you feel. Let them put your harm and hurt into words, words that everyone can understand..and I suppose..enjoy on some levels.
Bukowski was my favorite obviously.
He even taught me how to love a girl. He would write how he cut his finger nails close to the quick, so as not to "cut" the woman he was about to pleasure.
It worked like a charm, but Bukowski could never teach me about true love.
Love for him was sleeping in, getting drunk, smelling, smoking, and still being able to get laid while smelling like last weeks stagnant laundry.
I pulled into my lot, parking near that dead dried up tree that was used as a community ash tray.
I hated this hike upstairs, for it only reminded me of where I was. In Columbia Maryland, but out of all the yuppie yaw yaw places to reside, I had to pick the cheapest. You get what you pay for right?
Another day, another dollar.
Another night, another drink.
"You can stop that anytime now."
I bit my lower lip in frustration.
I figured, "You're in my car, you're in the bad mood, and you're acting like a pussy." but I kept my mouth shut.
After what seemed like decades, I dropped Ethan off at his place, immediately driving away without saying good-bye. I'm a dick, I know.
I immediately lit up, taking a couple long drags while trying to sort out the anonymous author.
What was their name? Who were they?
Their work was interesting, guttural and harsh, yet elegant. An angel with dirty wings with an anchor tattoo on their arm.
I began to ponder, why did Hunter have it? How long did he have it for? Did he have a Rolodex with them? Yeah, first things first, I have to identify the writer.
I took a few more drags before chucking the remainder out of the window.
My hands shook, such anticipation over such a silly matter, I bet that is what Bukowski felt at the beginning of some of his essays, his sex essays oozing and sopping with delicate smut from a dirty old man perspective...sheer genius.
Bukowski wasn't for everyone, you had to be either a tough as nails woman to like him, or a straight up "Man's Man" to enjoy him.
I was neither really, I don't know why I was drawn to his work, I just remember my mother reading an entry of his from "Love is a dog from hell" compilation volume.
She also got me into smoking, by age 13 I was sucking down 2 packs a day, and chugging lattes like a fiend.
Good ole Mom.
Dad never really liked us, he tended to keep to himself when he wasn't busy banging his secretary Rose Arthur.
I caught them once, and he chased me down the hallway into the living room, pinned me down on the floor and made me swear that I kept my mouth shut.
He said, "I made you boy, and I can unmake you."
I just remember nodding and whimpering.
So what can an only child do? Immerse yourself in others pain, let them tell it how it is, how it feels, how you feel. Let them put your harm and hurt into words, words that everyone can understand..and I suppose..enjoy on some levels.
Bukowski was my favorite obviously.
He even taught me how to love a girl. He would write how he cut his finger nails close to the quick, so as not to "cut" the woman he was about to pleasure.
It worked like a charm, but Bukowski could never teach me about true love.
Love for him was sleeping in, getting drunk, smelling, smoking, and still being able to get laid while smelling like last weeks stagnant laundry.
I pulled into my lot, parking near that dead dried up tree that was used as a community ash tray.
I hated this hike upstairs, for it only reminded me of where I was. In Columbia Maryland, but out of all the yuppie yaw yaw places to reside, I had to pick the cheapest. You get what you pay for right?
Another day, another dollar.
Another night, another drink.
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