so I finally put up the deuces, and for good reason too.
The idea that I was being played was apparent, but I didn't mind as long as it wasn't staring me in the face. Last Tuesday it spit in my face and I was left with no choice. Really I should have drawn this conclusion in the beginning. too bad because that ass is seriously tax deductible. I mean that in the nicest sense.
what was nice as well was the back up that I got from everyone.
But worry not, you think I don't have a back up plan? pfff... I don't really. But you know me, perpetually on the prowl.
This is a letter I've been meaning to write for awhile.
To You,
Can you explain something to me? How is it that he's been back in town for almost a week now and you've slept with me for 5 out of 6 of the nights?
When you were arrested, who did you call first to come pick you up? Who drove you to get your car from the towing company? Who talked you down until 9 in the morning?
If you didn't look so good in my Rooney jersey when you aren't wearing any pants I'd probably not have let you stay and although I may have played the "point to the couch and tell you to get the fuck out" story line in my head I cannot follow through for the life of me
Sometimes, I wish I was a cold beer.
You are considerably hindering my ability to get some whilst augmenting it at the same time.
This song, while its meaning likely different from my interpretation, seems to lay out the one consistent dilemma that I find myself in, and which usually gets me in trouble in the end.
I do feel as though it's a bit narcissistic to try and describe you're own life...