The Hymn of the Ungrateful Bastard

Woe.

The Unspeakable Torment.

I’ve experienced tragedy, attrition. The failure of dreams. None satisfied me more than the chase and subsequent death of desire.

I had gold, I had silver, I had mountains of men sifting through my tirades. Glory, joy incarnate, a ship of riches, the bow sharped proudly to the day sky.

I’ve dated, finagled, mentally married every Starbucks waitress in the city radius, and yet I cannot help but need another. And another.

A few to rest in my bed. To keep my socks warm. To lick the bowls clean.

Sexual, only about twice a week to preserve my essence. I’ll catch eyes with one the next time I walk to the bathroom, then another when I walk to my mom’s Sedan.

The last one had long curly hair, the one before her had a lick of silver, marvelous like that superhero lady. Superheroine? I try not to sully my chances when I make small talk by the water dispenser.

I put her in my bed, looks nice laying down next to my Anime posters. I don’t watch them, don’t know where they’re from, but they add some culture to the walls. Girls these days like any cartoon that’s vaguely lesbian, hyperviolent. It looks better than the bookshelf I kept of philosophy bullshit.

I’m aroused, then i’m bored. I’ve given in on being intellectually stimulated. Even when I am, all I want is to talk of Barbie dolls. I’m a contrarian at heart, I can’t help that my libido feels the same.

Becoming the envy of all men at my short stature. No pleasure in this game, only violence at the heart. I’ve drank every juice cleanse the online can read at me, seen no truth in the addition of salt to every meal. I could give up the health efforts and still go steady on my charm.

I’ve started to test myself. Barriers self-imposed. I wear tank-tops in public, cut my hair to near baldness, experiment with lumbering walks up and down the streets looking for some dirty talk. Still, i’m spoiled.

Still, I imagine what its like to impregnate. To soil the unity. Maybe one day it’ll keep me full.

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