Jesus, she doesn't make it easy.







We're sat here now, in the flat, and the calm has come. She's lost her bollocks now. Funny how quick the worm turns when no-ones about. All I did was join them for a drink. Funny how she uses me as an excuse when she's fed up. Me, the excuse, it's natural. I should've never told her my Dad was a booze-hound. Death by asssociation, I'm one of them too. It's genetic, dontcha know? My old boy was a fiend, in my eye at least, and sharing this with her, I must be one too.





A whiff of drink in my system and she takes the moral high ground on everything. Anything. High falluting as she is, the desert Prairie Rose, I'm just the tumbleweed, driftwood, flotsam in the background. I'm not the Dude at the bar, if you'll allow me to carry on the Western analogy, where Clint enters... Camera cuts to the Card Sharp; not me. The camera pans to the rugged, yet frail, Barkeep, with the Whore-With-a-Heart tartwife servicing the cowpokes upstairs, camera tilts up and down the stairs.. You see it... ; still not me. Imagery for all to see, and you see me, but you don't even think you do. I'm rolling from left to right in the background. Tumbleweed. Scenery. She's Clint. Outside the saloon, there's a noble donkey hitched to the post. As noble as donkeys go. This noble donkey looks into the saloon, but who cares? Not me. I'm the hitching post this Clint's donkey is hitched to. The best I ever got out of this situation was the busty barmaid winking at me, and fucking hell, she was imaginary, and this was an analogy, and nothing ever happened.



My mind goes on a wander, hurt by her actions, she's really let me down. I was only here for her, but since beer is involved, it must be my idea/fault. Hairs & Graces, and heaven forbid anyone ever saw her drunk... She never did, she always rised above that bullshit. Being a princess. Now that it's over I'm the Drunk, and the Asshole. I've been dreaming of Westerns, she's been high falluting with her Teacher-Pardners. Princessy-preachy-peachy McP has been holding court over her chosen subjects. They've gone. I've still got half a pint to drink, and now suddenly I'm an alcoholic. Her chit-chat gone, cold eyes turn to me. She doesn't even realise, but she's a bit tipsy too. Moods turn on a sixpence, she was networking, now she's got only me.



I'm quiet happy feeling like background scenery, a prop, the hitching post of all your donkeys. I had a tale at the start of this, lost it, got it back, couldn't be bothered typing again, and then daydreamed of John McClane tied to a donkey-post. God damn it, long-forgotten story short, she was a bitch, I was a Willis-hitched-donkey-piss-post, and now I wish I'd never started this blog thing.


Having said that, DON'T GO! I'm sure there's another 3 hours of typing for 4 drunken paragraphs to pay off you beautiful, sexy 5 people!