You wanna fuck me? I'd fuck me.

It's been hard waking up this week.  I think, probably, it's too much absinthe.  You know, if such a thing is possible.  If it's possible to have too much absinthe.
It's probably affecting my character as well.  Last night it was so pleasant and pretty out, I walked almost all the way home from work, up through little italy.  I was meeting a friend for dinner and she was late, so I waited outside her house, by the graveyard, in the dark.  Haunting and Spooky, like absinthe guzzling vampires aught to be.

We talked about it - I said:  "Which monster would you have sex with?  Of the monsters?  Vampires?  Wolfmen?  Frankenstein's monster?"

She couldn't really get into it, settled for vampires.

"What about you?  Zombies?  Ghosts?  Vampires?"

"All of them.  Every monster.  I would definitely fuck any and all monsters."

It was a pretty good evening.  More absinthe in the end - fancy drinks at one of the fancy bars down the hill.  In the end I come home, exhausted, late, again.  I realize that I'd get out more, do more, see more if I had more money.  It's weird to know that I need more money to be happier.  Well, it's discouraging to feel that need upon you anyway.  That's a dark path, I think, of wanting more, because it's always that.  I'll grow like a goldfish to fit the space allotted me by my paychecks, the room to maneuver through life that they grant me, and then I'll be trapped in that place and need more again.  I assume.  Maybe I just need a raise.  I think about how I'll demand one pretty soon.


I'll ask.  In the dark.  By the cemetery.