the last of the Ron Paul guys walks up to you with an outstretched hand a shitbag civilian in an 07 ford Taurus in a costal town on the edge of Pawtucket where a friend's ex boyfriend shot cans with his rifle. he texted you the next day calling you cute then later a faggot, and she was never the one that got away - she lives in her parent's attic now. when you're in Providence they're weiners not hot dogs but you didn't want to go there and see anyone you knew. the last time i was asked to smoke crack was outside the 7/11 down the street, and every time i've politely declined the proffer has been more than understanding. and it's now and your friend asks you why you can't gut a fish because it's the more ethical thing to do than to release. and the flies are in your hair and you picture yourself in a malaria net hiding and chilling with the next great disease. cape cod goth girl walks into the bait and tackle with something on her mind and more than a few returns but you'll imagine what she does and doesn't know and that makes u so above and below. now im making cups of coffee and forgetting to drink them because im magnificent and dumb and can hold a steady job. my boss works for the ascended who mostly live in the desert but i can brag that i held open the door.
