I tell myself again and again that I don’t need you. I tell myself you provide me nothing but a few joy-filled hours at a time before you leave me broke, alone, and down again. I tell myself that you’re just some kind of sick life support system that keeps me connected to the feelings I’ve become accustomed to during my time with you. But despite telling myself all this I can’t quit. I can’t just say no. I don’t know if it’s because I really do love you like I say I do so often when we’re together or if it’s because I’ve just gotten used to you. I don’t know why I put up with your shit but I do. I don’t know how I can take all the lies and betrayal in stride. All just to feel happy for a few hours before the horrible nightmare of reality comes crashing down on me and you’re nowhere to be found.
So that’s it I guess. I want to give you up but I can’t. god knows I can try and I will try and I’ll fail and I’ll try again just to fail again. It’s a vicious cycle that I’ve been trapped in for the better part of the last year and I want to say I’m done with it but I’m too in love—or attached or whatever to you that I can’t just be done with it. I wish I could I wish I had the strength to just say fuck it and quit but it’s not like quitting anything else and I know it cause you’re always there even when you’re not there for me. My friends are always talking about you. Everyone likes you. It’ll be hard and I know that from the last four times I tried to end it and I really hope this will be the time that it works but I know it won’t, and for some fucked-up reason I’m glad that it won’t.
Thursday, April 16, 2009
Monday, April 6, 2009
Jack's Donkey Show Disaster
I may be wrong in saying this but I might be the first guy on this planet ever to accidentally see a donkey show. I’m sure plenty of people go down to the border, get totally shitfaced, and come up with the brilliant idea to go watch a woman fuck a donkey. Not that many people witness such a horrible act of nature while trying to treat their girlfriend to a romantic evening at the bullfight.
So far the trip had been a nightmare. Spot got the shits from drinking the dirty ass water, which led to me substituting raw tequila for all the water in my diet, which in turn led to several unexpected blackouts which I often awoke from with far less money and pants than I started with. Jill was also in her usual bitchy mood, which wasn’t anything new or unexpected, but it still contributes to the trip as a whole being a downer.
With all this going on, and me being the great guy I am, I figured I’d treat the lady and our four legged companion to an ancient Mexican tradition, the bullfight. However, it’s a little hard to find a bullfight when you’re totally unfamiliar with the city you’re in, you’ve downed a bottle of tequila for breakfast, and the only Spanish you know that even remotely relates to “bull fight” is “burro.” And that’s how, at the end of the day, Jill, Spot, and myself wound up in the seediest bar in the seediest part of town watching the gnarliest stripper in town pleasure what had to be the most docile donkey in town.
Now you might be saying “Nice going, Jack” or “Why wouldn’t you learn some Spanish before you went to Mexico, Jack?” or “Why would there be a bullfight at a seedy bar with a donkey tied to a post out front, Jack?” To all those I must simply respond that I was too drunk to notice or care. That was Jill’s job.
So I didn’t notice until it was too late that the donkey was not, in fact, a bull, anymore than the stripper with the club foot, warts, and eye patch was a matador. And I’m not sure if any of you have seen the common Mexican burro’s member in all its massive glory, but it is quite a site to see. Especially if that burro is giving the stripper with the most knife scars in Mexico hell while your dog barks and wags its tail happily while your girlfriend vomits into an empty beer bottle. Yes, it is quite a site to see.
So far the trip had been a nightmare. Spot got the shits from drinking the dirty ass water, which led to me substituting raw tequila for all the water in my diet, which in turn led to several unexpected blackouts which I often awoke from with far less money and pants than I started with. Jill was also in her usual bitchy mood, which wasn’t anything new or unexpected, but it still contributes to the trip as a whole being a downer.
With all this going on, and me being the great guy I am, I figured I’d treat the lady and our four legged companion to an ancient Mexican tradition, the bullfight. However, it’s a little hard to find a bullfight when you’re totally unfamiliar with the city you’re in, you’ve downed a bottle of tequila for breakfast, and the only Spanish you know that even remotely relates to “bull fight” is “burro.” And that’s how, at the end of the day, Jill, Spot, and myself wound up in the seediest bar in the seediest part of town watching the gnarliest stripper in town pleasure what had to be the most docile donkey in town.
Now you might be saying “Nice going, Jack” or “Why wouldn’t you learn some Spanish before you went to Mexico, Jack?” or “Why would there be a bullfight at a seedy bar with a donkey tied to a post out front, Jack?” To all those I must simply respond that I was too drunk to notice or care. That was Jill’s job.
So I didn’t notice until it was too late that the donkey was not, in fact, a bull, anymore than the stripper with the club foot, warts, and eye patch was a matador. And I’m not sure if any of you have seen the common Mexican burro’s member in all its massive glory, but it is quite a site to see. Especially if that burro is giving the stripper with the most knife scars in Mexico hell while your dog barks and wags its tail happily while your girlfriend vomits into an empty beer bottle. Yes, it is quite a site to see.
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