She was alright, if you liked them big,

her hips were twice the size of mine.

She gambled, drank and ate Buffalo wings.

I felt disgusted.

She had a house in the hills,

expensive automobiles,

multiple degrees, from private colleges I couldn't get a job,

picking up trash.

Dated only writers, she sad.

She wrote and drank and farted.

Her stories were awful, obvious, pretentious.

Her problem was she loved life.

She would never write anything, ever.

That night I got drunk and started laughing,

maybe I should at least try.

06/14/2014

Posted on 06/14/2014
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