I wish I could tell you that when you call, my heart skips a beat and that it takes my breath away. You'd like to hear something like that. Something about how a poor soul who tells you they don't care about what you do really does. That I'm a fly and you've caught me in your web and you're ready to consume me. I wish I could tell you all that, be the music to your ears.

But I'd be lying.

The truth is that when you called me while I was driving home from Cleveland, it made lighting surge my veins. I could spit fire. You're worse than a pain in my ass. You come around long enough to shake things up and just when I get all the pieces of the puzzle I like to call "over you" picked up, you knock them back out of my hands. You're timing is impeccable. Your nerves are Superman and I'm ready to be your kryptonite bitch.

My sixth sense tells me what your phone call is all about before I even answer. It's one of those "call you when I want something...meaning you" calls. Or maybe it's "I'm around all my friends and you're hanging on my jock like I'm DJ Quik, let's see how many hoops we can get you to jump through.".

...and I answered anyway.

I knew something wasn't right when you asked if you could take me out to eat. You suggested Denny's then IHOP because you told me my nipples remind you of pancakes.

You didn't think I could hear your friends spoon feeding you every line.

You asked me to say numerous names, none of which were familiar to me. I'd repeat them and you'd laugh like a school girl with a man's hand up her skirt. I aced your Saved By The Bell trivia. I even gave you my opinion on LeBron James' cock, when you said you thought it was a "Pringles can".

I let you believe that I really thought that line about you falling off a horse and hurting your back was true by asking you if you were in a wheelchair because I've always wanted to fuck a paraplegic.

You'd fart into the receiver and ask me to rate them and then ask me if I fart and if they're loud and smell. Then you asked me if I was coming over this weekend. I told you I didn't know where you lived and asked you why you wanted me to come over. "To meet Cheryl..." you answered, your mother, and have a farting contest with her.

You asked if you could call me "Baby" and if I could call you "Big Poppa". You kept calling me Naners and Banananana. You asked me to tell you I love you.

These are only the tip of the iceberg of hoops I jumped through to play your game because I felt like playing you for once.

You were so drunk that you forgot that paraplegics can't get their dicks hard...so when I tell you to go fuck yourself, you happily oblige.

04/30/2008

Author's Note: i'm so over it.

Posted on 04/30/2008
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