Hello to electric kool aid from the funny farm. I still haven’t tried the roulette.

I wanted to send you something to say, it’s okay, I’m not judging you -- see, I have a sense of humour! -- something to tell you that the stories that you fear will chase me away only fascinate me, make me wonder if I’ll ever be able to gamble the way that you do, push myself to an edge that sharp. Only I don’t trust drugs. You do, though, don’t you. Maybe you can teach me.

This place always makes me think of that, drugs, you, my own lack of wild streak. You act like I’m always the one with her knees crossed and finger wagging, but I’ve never been offered another part. I want one, here, with the panoply of lights, constant motion, constant booze (here’s me holding a plastic, red cowboy boot full of tonight’s special), call girl calling cards brushing tits against your cheek or your ankle at every turn; I spin in this bacchanalian circus feeling like if I could only escape myself, I’d finally find you. Get you.

I know you’d say I’m possessive, that when I walked into the peyote-hippie-chick-orgy scene last week, I harshed all over everyone. I know you’ve even said that I could have come, you just didn’t think I’d like it. You seem to say that about everything that you won’t live without, though, that I just won’t like it. And maybe I wouldn’t have. But just once, I’d like to be as lost as you were between that pixie chick’s thighs, ready to fuck it all instead of feeling responsible.

Going to drink in the pool, see if drowning your sorrows actually works.

This was a shitty apology, wasn’t it?

Save me some of your chemical romance.


PostcardQuest2011: Hunter S. Thompson, John Cusack and Johnny Depp riding in a car with a blow-up doll

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