In peeling back the skin on the monster, beneath the lizard scales she’s got perfect, silicone-free breasts, but when her mouth opens all I hear is: “NIGHTWORK”. I don’t want to like her, but I don’t want her to hate me either.

The adjustment is the real killer.

Going from a daytime routine to picking up the wrenches and climbing behind the wheel of the truck, driving into the night so you can blast some holes in walls and maybe get something done to appease the chums in charge. But that’s later, when you’re on the clock. Right now, laying in bed, it’s all about posture and how much light gets into the bedroom. How loud the shit neighbors downstairs decide to scream at and beat their shit kids. I swear she must literally strangle that little tadpole any time he gets just a little bit annoying. Usually she just blasts her music for the entire apartment building to hear and ignores her ugly little spawn.


The landlord is supposed to be around at some unannounced time to replace the toilet and I hope it’s today so I can tell her to fuck off. Not in a rude way, but in a nice pleasant way. I’m a nice, pleasant guy, after all. I did develop some semblance of manners since my formative years. I’ll answer the door completely naked. That’ll scare her the socks off her gnarled, decomposed feet for sure. But Sarah is going to work now so who is gonna rub me down until I fall asleep (if I fall asleep)? Hank sure won’t. He’ll only scream and yell at me because he’s the one who tells me when it’s time for him to eat. Hell, maybe I’ll just put on some music. Miles Davis has a hell of a horn and it’s a swell thing to hear any time of the day.

In the mirror I can see my tired eyes, but that’s okay. I’ve got this job that pays somewhat decently, at least on the weekends. It hurts every part of my body but that’s okay too; I know a lot of people who can’t feel anything at all, or at least people who claim to (it’s a side-effect from having a silver spoon shoved up their ass their whole life). They say they’ve become numb to the world and that may be true for some of them. I don’t know for sure but I don’t think anyone is truly numb. Even dead people feel something sometimes; you can hear them in this part of town, screaming and groaning in the night. There’s a romantic quality to being stuck, I guess. To feeling like you’ve seen it all to the point that you could be stricken blind and you wouldn’t care, because you’ve seen it all. People romanticize being downtrodden and burnt up too much, being perpetually drunk and depressed and misunderstood. No matter what anyone tells ya, it’s not a pleasant experience. It hurts every day. The joints first, then the muscles, sometimes both at the same time. And then your courage is afflicted, until you look in the mirror and start to think it’s all just part of growing older. And then you’re really stuck. You’ll say you can’t live any other way, but if given the chance you would.


The boss (my old boss, he’s been fired for over a month now, yea you got what you deserved you fucking piece of shit) says to me: “this will probably be another two-nighter,” and he says it proudly like it was his decision, or maybe he wants me to think he’s being empathetic and we share some inside joke about work pains. “You can handle it I’m sure.”

I imagine what it’s like to be him. To go home to his ugly wife (if you ever saw this guy you’d know for certain that there’s no way in hell he’s married to anyone with a membership in the upper echelon of “physically attractive”, by law, by common sense, she has to be hideous, absolutely atrocious), and she’s got a wrinkly neck and a mole on her temple the size of a quarter. He’ll climb out of his perfectly-ironed office clothes and slip into those button down matching pajamas. He probably reads before bed, using a gilded bookmark he picked up at Barnes and Noble in the stationary section. The kind with the stupid yellow tassel. He gets up in the morning at just a minute or two after six, after sleeping all the way through the night(because of the ambien, most likely), turns on his phone and sees my text: a great big cartoonish middle finger. But he just laughs because he thinks I’m kidding with him. He thinks we’re on that level. He turns to his ugly wife with the wrinkly cunt neck and oversized head mole and says: “Oh that Matthes, he’s one of the real funny ones.”

I get back to the shop after the install just as he’s pulling in and he asks me how I got so dirty. I tell him this is what happens when you really work, when you work for real and he just laughs. He asks if everything got done and I say fuck no, we’re going back tonight. It was just as he suspected: a two-nighter. He says: “I knew I picked the right man for the job.” And throws me a thumbs up.

He falls into his leather swivel desk chair and hits the ignore button on his ringing phone. He says: “They never stop calling. They call when I’m asleep sometimes, do you believe that? Don’t they have any common sense? I’m about to quit my job.”
I don’t have to hope anymore, because like I said earlier, the motherfucker was fired.


They’re hard-pressed by their own superiors, they’ll say. And maybe they are. Maybe their hate comes from somewhere else.

My boss (the one who was fired) says: “Let me know when you’re going to work so we can document it, let me know when you want to work harder. Not a lot of the guys around here do that willingly, so we need to document it when it happens, so the higher-ups know. They need to know where their money is going.”

They need to document everything.
They didn’t agree with the bootlaces I bought the other day because they’re afraid they’ll snap too easily. Suddenly they care about my well-being because of a bootlace. That’s what it always comes down to: bootlaces, and they still haven’t ordered my new work pants. They keep saying me getting fatter around the waist isn’t their responsibility.


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The People Are Crazy, Out Here in the Dives


is a turd waiting to get flushed;
not everyone can be a floater,
bottom down, top up, basking under the sun.

The unfortunate truth
of this
is that we all came from some giant stinking asshole,
functioning perfectly the way every asshole should,
we were pushed from the darkness
as a baby bird is pushed from the nest,

except we will never fly.

We will never see a great
beautiful sky.”


I was born on August 22nd, 1986, during the tail end of what my mother remembers as being the hottest summer in recent memory. My mother said I slid out without a hitch. I didn’t even cry. When it came time to take me home, she said I was happiest when I was left alone, and I only showed signs of tears whenever I wasn’t left alone for too long a time.

I didn’t fall in love with the open road until late 2014, sometime in the fall when I’d just been hired at my now current job. I’d seen plenty of the road to last at least half a lifetime, particularly with the drive I took across the country out to Sedona, Arizona to ferry my then spiritually marooned and societally impaled mother to her new hopeful place of habitat and patch of grass (or in this case sand) on which she would write her life’s epilogue. But that’s a story for another day.

From sometime in 2012 to the fall of 2014 I’d been experiencing a lull in work. After being fired from my overnight baking job, I tried everything I could find just to make a buck, all while attempting to keep the flow of words onto the blank page. I lived with various people. Couches, beds, attics, occasionally women. And then it happened. I met Sarah. Somewhere along the way she harnessed the info I’d been waiting for. This job, while paying a measly $16.50 an hour to start, was the highest paying job I’d ever had. It was described to me as simple: drive from restaurant to restaurant answering service calls for the bulk cooking oil filtering and recycling system the company had designed and implemented on fryers all around the country. Real high tech stuff that it wouldn’t be a stretch to say not a fucking soul has ever heard of. I was assigned to the Philadelphia Depot, which covers the eastern half of Pennsylvania, most of New Jersey, all of Delaware, and a few corners of sloppy, swampy Hell in Maryland. I took the job, saying I had experience with tools but it’d been a while. I’d turned a few wrenches in my day but mostly I’d done everything else. My interviewer assured me that training would be aplenty, and that he was sure that if I knew how to turn a wrench at all, I could figure out any of the hundreds of problems we get calls about each day.

My first assignment was to help out on an install up at Blue Mountain, one of the ski resorts where there was remodel construction going on. I was sent just to assist, to see how the install process went down, and to run to grab tools the already seasoned techs would need. The GPS routed me there, saying it would take around three hours, maybe more with current traffic and weather conditions.

And then it happened.
I’ll never forget it.
The sun was just beginning to set. The highway stretched out in front of me. Those little yellow strips of paint on the road to divide each lane looked bored, but to me, they were new friends. And as the engine of the boxtruck came to life and I accelerated and gained speed along the top of the concrete, I met them all dozens a second at a time. The trees on either side of the road tried to keep up, they all wanted to meet me. Even the barriers on the sides of the highway, the dents and the mangled metal from constant accidents, cars and trucks smashing into them like meteors, the brains and the blood and the bones and the insides of mindless drivers staining their concrete skin… they all welcomed me to the flight. I was 28, so of course I’d seen the highway, I’d seen a great deal of what the road had to offer, but something was different about that night. I don’t want to use the word “rebirth”- I know that in writing this there will already come with it a certain overflow of unavoidable pretentiousness- but there was in fact something very spiritual about merging onto that highway for the first time, the first job assignment. I was getting paid to press down on the gas pedal. I was getting paid to meditate, one hand on the top of the wheel, the other wherever it wanted to be.

This November, I’ll have held this job for five years. I make an okay amount regularly during the week, and two dollars an hour extra on Saturday’s and Sunday’s. I know a thousand times more about the job than I did five years ago, and they’ve made me the lead tech and lead installer on many of the projects during the last two years. And still, no woman, no anything or anyone has ever felt as warm, as inviting as that moment when I first merge onto the road. The suspension in the work truck bounces and bumps as though any tiny, uneven surface might destroy the whole undercarriage. But I love it all. I hit a pothole and it could be a woman telling me I bought the wrong toilet paper. I spill a little gasoline on the toe of my boot, and it could be the radio going static during one of my favorite songs. I pull over on the side of some desolate highway winding along a mountainside and…
…there is nothing quite like it.

There is no god that can’t be explained away or disproven by science or experience, but this experience I have, this emotion that comes with knowing I’m in motion, rubber tires on concrete pavement or dirt or rubble or mud or wooden single-lane bridges… I can’t explain it.


At just after dawn they come out, sometimes before. They open their little eyes and moisten those retinas with those eye drops that make everything look cloudy and obscure. And then they get into their cars and let their left arms hang out the window. They snarl and blow smoke from their noses, they press down hard on the gas and run over children if they get in their way. The people of the morning are not human, they are barely even alive, but somehow they breathe life onto the road like virus cells parading through arteries. They have horns by noon, and by three o’clock they have a political agenda that has very little to do with peace and harmony. By dinner time, they’ll have reached into the cunts of all the pregnant women at the nearest grocery store, pulled out the unborn corpse, and have gotten home just in time to toss it into a boiling pot of oil and seasoning before it spoils. They use paprika, but they also squeeze in some cumin, and the whole damn house smells like a rehab lodge in the middle of a forest. And when they take that first bite, the juices roll down their chins and they catch it in little mason jars. Tomorrow, they’ll use the juices as a base for their midweek stew, and everyone will wonder how he got it to taste so good.

At five a.m. my eye sockets feel like hollowed-out glass cornucopias that could collapse on themselves at less than a moment’s notice. I feel bad for the tiny capillaries and the pupils and the retinas that all have to work so hard, harder than most of the rest of me. I can feel their emotions, and their need to be shut off from the world, but then I tell them: “one day, those eyelids you love so much are going to come down and there won’t be a single science in the whole world that can make them lift back up again”. And so my eyes reluctantly stay open and let all the repugnant light in.

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Tonight is all about channeling a little rage, and that guy’s blood is still smeared all over the road outside; it looks like some car’s oil pan gave up on life and splattered all of its aspirations all over the concrete

Every time I hear a noise outside the front door, I race to the peep hole and stick my eye as close to the void as I can. The inside of the glass eyepiece is dirty and around the rim I can make out tiny specs of dirt. Every now and then I’ll have to moisten up a q-tip and stick it in the hole, swirling it around to clean out as much junk as I can. Every time I do it I’m reminded of the first time I was tested for chlamydia. The nurse had a nice smile that day.

Yesterday some poor woman driving an SUV let out a blood curdling scream that I’m sure everyone within twenty miles of the area heard. She screamed “HELP! HELP! HELP!” Sarah and I looked outside. Her car was stationary in the middle of the main road just below us. Embedded in the side of her car was a man on a motorcycle, a man who also wasn’t budging. The woman screamed bloody murder, like someone was killing her with a sharp object. Sarah was the first to call 9-1-1 and not more than three minutes later the entire area was surrounded by police, ambulances, and a big red fire truck. The paramedics yelled out “GET A TOURNIQUET!” about six times. After everything was said and done and the sun had finally begun to set, all that remained was a big splash of blood in the middle of the road where the man on the bike had bled out some of his red stuff. Sarah’s friend, who knows a guy who’s friends with the man on the bike found out the man on the bike is currently in a coma, and may lose his arm.

Tomorrow is my Monday of the workweek, well sort of. I work Thursdays, Fridays, Saturdays, and Sundays, but our pay period is Sunday to Saturday. So technically, my “Monday” is on Sunday and my “Friday” is on Saturday. But since I work the four days in a row, I just call Thursday my “Monday” and Sunday my “Friday”. Uninteresting, right? Of course it is. There’s nothing quite less interesting than discussing a writer’s work schedule for his dayjob. I’d rather sport an unshavable, totally permanent hippy bush between my legs than talk about that sort of thing, a permacunt, or in my case a permacock. A dickfro. I’ve never been adverse to a little pubic action on a woman, but if I ever let myself go with the groinfur, my dick just disappears entirely, leaving even myself to wonder if there’s anything down there. It makes taking a piss synonymous with watching someone with clubhand try to french braid some unfortunate girl.

I can’t stop looking out the window to look at the blood on the road. It doesn’t make me sad or numb or add a bad taste to my mouth. In a weird way it’s probably the closest thing I’ll ever get to snorting coke. I’ve never snorted coke, and never will due to my family’s history of cardiac disorders (I’m destined to die from a heart attack sometime in my 50’s, that is if my father really did die from a heart attack and not from a pill-popping act of suicide, a major pill-popper he was, making the latter of which the more likely scenario given the suicide note we all found shortly after his death in 2004 and the fact that my mother said he was dead on the couch when she found him, and one of the paramedics trying to keep him alive, a classmate of mine the year before, had said he died in the ambulance on the way to the hospital). That whole situation has seemed a little strange to think about again, it probably doesn’t mean anything, and I’m probably a psycho for even considering it.

I really need to get back in shape. I’ll start with push-ups again. Maybe some sit-ups. I used to have an 8-pack and those rock-hard pecs all you superficial women crave. My ass even had a pretty good fuckin’ shape to it back then. I’ve been told I’m a complicated man, but what’s fucking complicated about saying I should start doing more push-ups while I have a glass of Dickel next to the computer?  Tomorrow always comes for someone, except maybe that guy on the motorcycle the other day. If it does, he’ll meet the new day with one less appendage, and maybe with a slightly-more open mind about motor-vehicle operation safety.

Update: Sarah just informed me the guy didn’t make it. I’m pouring another glass of Dickel.


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The Hank Saga

We adopted Hank sometime in the early spring of 2018. We didn’t mean to, because we had no immediate plans to adopt a pet of any kind that day, or even soon. My fiance and I, Sarah, like to walk into pet stores to look at the pets and pick them up and cuddle them if we can. To think we almost didn’t pick Hank, as I had my eyes set on an entirely different cat named Silas, and Sarah was looking at an all black cat named Charlotte. Silas was enormous and sat in his cage making him look more like he was wearing the cage, like a tightly-fit costume. He reached out with his paws begging me for attention, so naturally I freaked out with excitement wanting to meet the fat, furrball. I asked if they could let him out in the little room for me and Sarah to meet. Silas was not just enormous and fluffy though, he was also a monster, a demon, a hellspawn, a possessed creature of incurable evil, attacking me as though I were the cause of his orphaned lifestyle. He gnawed on my hand and wrist and arm, not playfully, but vengefully, drawing blood at one point. I didn’t hate Silas, I couldn’t, because he didn’t know any better. Something or someone was to blame for his reaction to me. But I got the feeling if we left with him that day, the marriage would not last. Sarah and I both were thinking the same thing at the same time, one of our gifts(as many spiritually destined couples traversing eternally through Hell have).

And then we saw him, laying down in his cage. His name was Tobey then, and he looked thin, underfed, and exhausted in the eyes. He was a cat being held in the arms of a fucking angel. The volunteer lady watching the cats told us he’d been there in the shelter for a while, several months, while Silas had only just arrived. No hate for Silas, but that was one of the deciding factors which led us to pick Tobey. He’d been waiting and waiting, and if we didn’t do something about it now, he’d probably be waiting even longer. The lady looking after all the cats told us he’d been picked up off the street of Philly, having probably been abandoned some time ago due to him already being fixed. That alone added to the sadness in his face.


The lady put Silas back, much to his ire, and let Tobey out of his cage. Tobey immediately warmed up to us. There was no biting, no struggle. I looked to my fiance and we both filled out the paperwork for the adoption application. Long story short, we were approved and my fiance picked him up a couple days later while I was at work. She said he was standing on top of the cat carrier the day she went to get him. He was ready, he knew exactly what was going on. When I got home from work that day, he was asleep in the bed next to her. It was perfect.

Tobey was his old name, and while he did look like a Tobey, I have to admit I’d always wanted a cat named Hank. And to tell ya the truth, Tobey, with his forlorn gazes and distance-traversing stares, not to mention his “no-shit-giving, give me fucking love” meows, looked much more like a Hank than a Tobey. So… Tobey ceased to be Tobey, and became Hank. He seemed to approve.


Loving Hank was not a hard thing to do. He walked into our apartment like he’d lived there for years. He sniffed all corners of every room, walking the edges, rubbing up on things he thought he might want to rub up on later. And he snuggled like a long-lost lover. You could say Sarah and I, while being each other’s soulmates, found a new soulmate in Hank.


There were times, however, when he displayed a slight apprehension and unsure demeanor about his newly acquired parents… it became obvious he’d never been caught in the warm and fuzzy, unprejudiced embrace of a hug before….


He was quick to claim us though, conveying his approval, or at the very least a nihilistic acceptance, with his eyes and his meows and long, studious examinations from afar or up close. To him, we were two strange people who for some reason wanted nothing but to show him more love than he’d probably ever received. We tell him we love him all the time, a hundred times a day, kissing him on the head and making sure to acknowledge him every single time we see him, even if we’d already done so an hour ago. This guy needs it. We look out the window together from our third-story apartment. He watches TV with us, sometimes sitting below the screen staring up for hours at a time. We tell him he’s the best thing that ever happen to us, and we also call him an asshole when he’s being an asshole (all cats are assholes no matter how lovable they are). He’s developed a slightly different relationship with each of us, Sarah and myself, or to him, his mother and father. He seems to snuggle me more and play with her more, especially when she gets home from work. When she comes home after working all day he instantly cements his eyes on her, vying for her love, acknowledgement and at least a half hour or forty-five minutes of strictly “mom time”. It’s almost tear-jerking to watch how much love he gives us. When Sarah and I head to the bedroom for sleeps, Hank follows, snuggling between us in bed when he realizes we’ve retired to the boudoir for the night. He nestles in right in the middle as though we’ve made a nest for him out of our own bodies and almost immediately starts snoring away. I’m in bed now, actually, and Sarah is sleeping in because she doesn’t go to work until later. And Hank is sleeping curled up in a ball between us, breathing slowly and whimsically.


We tried introducing him to a second cat, whom we named Lola, but there was still too much of the street running through Hank’s blood. There was hissing, growling, claws lashed out, and there was literal bloodshed between Hank and Lola. We had them separated for the most part to aid in the acclimation process, but after two months, Hank started to show a side of himself we never wanted to see again. He wasn’t himself, or at least his self we had grown to know. Ultimately we decided it was best to return Lola to the shelter in Delaware (which later we were informed she had been re-adopted by a family).


Sarah and I will have conversations about Hank, saying besides moving into this apartment when we did, adopting Hank was the best thing we ever did. He’s the most loving feline bastard I’ve ever come in contact with. He sleeps with us every night and like a well-behaved street cat, stands on my neck (mostly around three in the morning) when he feels it’s time for him to eat.

42721227_165510281038331_8890985814897459200_o50454655_233280117594680_3952189546698899456_nHank, is somewhere between six and ten years old, an age we’ll surely never know exactly for sure. I wish I could have known what his life has been like, all the adventures he experienced on the street, I would very much like to know what evil people he was previously owned by and what the circumstances were leading up to his abandonment. I can’t imagine anyone waking up one day deciding to let Hank out of the house, or leaving him on the sidewalk in a box somewhere. This cat is a Saint, and a King among felines. I hope he still has a hundred years left to live, and I want to be there for every single one of them.


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Six years later, thicker beard, looser composure

It’s been nearly six whole goddamn years since my last post, so I don’t know what the exact circumstances, causes, or logistics of my “blogging” sabbatical were. I think it may have had something to do with belligerence on my part, maybe I was an asshole or something, or called too many women cunts. So I’ll just… keep this post simple and seam-burstingly full of life updates.

Since 2013, I’ve gained a lot of weight. Not Thor: Endgame weight. And not necessarily emotional weight. But enough to make the scale tip closer to 190 pounds than it ever has during my tenure as a person. I’m healthy, according to my employer-supplied medical/bio screening thing, lots of good cholesterols and very little bad ones. In the last six years I’ve held the same job for almost five of them (a personal record), been engaged twice to the same woman (still currently), and I live with my fiance in a lesser-loved part of town with our tuxedo cat Hank. I’ve just published my 18th book, and I am currently staying up nights and days working on a 19th, 20th, and 21st (two of them sequels, and one of them another collection of poetry, all due sometime in 2020) all at the same time because clearly I’m a fucking idiot. Another neat little factoid about my current life, is that I’ve cut back severely on drinking (to some of you that may come as a shock), not that I think I ever will cut it out completely, but I think my liver’s perpetual frown has begun to unscrew itself into a semi-sideways smile, but that could be complete and utter balderdash.

So, that’s just kind of the tip of the great white penis, there’s obviously more but I only have two hands and one alone is enough. This blogging thing hasn’t been a thing for me in quite some time so, this may just be a middle-of-the-night accident that never happens again, or at least not for another six years at the end of which I’ll probably be announcing having been diagnosed with liver cancer, gonorrhea, and of course, my divorce. Or maybe rays of sunshine will poop out of the clouds and blind me with blessings, the world is a toss up these days, like a good, sweet little girl’s ankles high in the sky, or restrained with respect because the neighbor is psychosomatic and strange, bombastic noises upset them.

Dave Matthes

ps… buy my newest novel “No Old Souls at Fury Tavern”, it has very little to do with much of anything good, like heading out into the night in search of some strange sexual experience… which actually is good. So go out there, strut your bare calves, get fucked, and then for the come-down… take a gaze through my pages. Or tear them out and use them for the cleanup.

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A Lesson in Metaphorical Poon-Pounding and Spiritual Laser Surgery

When everything that moves is a blur, and seconds feel like hours, the only thing that equates a long ass work day is a dude pounding your ass who just won’t cum. Where’s the fucking lube when ya need it? 

Going from working until midnight last night to getting up at 5am to take a shit, and then having to go back into work at 6:45 is not my idea of a great weekend. And yet somehow I have time to write this shit. Shit that no one really reads yet is there for the reading should some poor asshole burden themselves with the task. But if the mantra “there’s always someone out there who’s got it worse than you” is true, and not some parental queef spoon fed to spoiled little shits everywhere…then I must be one unappreciative prick. Not that I give a hoo-ha.

Yesterday’s opening thoughts went something like this: “Go Fuck Yourself” and “I could really go for a pineapple upside-down cake”. I’ve yet to acquire said cake, and I still feel like I haven’t told enough people to go fuck themselves. Unfortunately, even in this town, a place where rich, snooty college kids whose parents literally pay for everything, the place where I work denies my any such liberty, lest I want to be fired. I work at a convenient store…in the facilities and stock and inventory department. I’ve worked there for the last five or six months…and I get the feeling that the only thing convenient about it is the amount of douche-bag customers the place attracts. And if there’s one thing I hate more than getting fisted by sleepless nights between raging hard-on infused work days, it’s douche-bag customers. 


That’s all for now I guess. Nothing too substantial, nothing too equated. Then again, once these next 8 hours are slammed away in the Slave Bank, the next two days are mine to do with whatever I please. Maybe then I can get some writing done. Real writing, the good stuff. Lord knows it’s only been since about April since I started this book…but recently I feel like all I do is stare at the blank page while subconsciously playing with my balls. Literally, sometimes I don’t even realize it. Seconds will turn into hours, and instead of writing prose I’ll look down and see my two jubblies cradled in my right hand. Paradoxical.


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Blame the WIne: An Ode to Unconventional Intentional Bullshit

Being that this is my first post in quite some time, I will begin this little online duet with myself with a passage written a lifetime or so ago. In an attempt to add a bit of color to one’s life, in the same way some smut from south jersey might purchase a hot pink floor mat for their bathroom…here it is: an ode of sorts to one of my two most cherished beverages. Short and sweet, but full of promises and truths, like a glass of the beverage itself. 

Too often do we forget life’s little pleasantries. Wine of course not being anything little, but perhaps overlooked. And being that I am in fact accompanied by a glass of wine, staring at one screen being this one, and the other being the open laptop in which most if not all of my literary conception takes place…I might as well write a few words about my deep and unscrupulous, and perhaps biblical love affair I’ve been having with….wine… 

I’ve just caught myself in a bit of a snafu…having started a conversation with a woman with a line exactly as follows after her wondering why we haven’t talked in an indiscernible length of time: “I’d say let’s be butt buddies, but I’m a virgin and afraid to lose it to a woman.” 

Of course I’m not a virgin, at least to some things valued as centerfolds in outlandish cultures half-across the world, like needle-dicking your neighbor’s mother with a sheep-sheer, however, I find that, metaphorically perhaps, if the wine were any thicker, I’d have more shart-related bragging rights than a camel with down-syndrome. Wine truly is the juice of the Gods, and I implore everyone to acquire a hobby in which wine is a prerequisite.

And while the aforementioned is one of the few negative obscurities invoked by the juice of the Gods, it is not nearly enough to cancel out the infinitely positive POSITIVE aspects. …..

Not only does wine awaken the urge to purge a vaginal interchange with one’s own testosterone-cursed trajectory, but it also gives birth to a new meaning to the word: “inspiration”. All out war in the bedroom may be shortsighted and splintered if not for the promise of queef-blasted defiance, and in the respect of Judas…betray ALL expectations. Pour a glass. Forget the blank page. Summon the opposite sex. And make her one hell of a steak dinner w/ a pasta side dish. Then look them deep in their eyes, and don’t say a word….(unless they’re the insecure type and have no idea why the hearth is ablaze with romance-soaked flames of euphoria, in which case, get the fuck out of there before you find yourself stuck with a Stage-Potato Stalker)….don’t say a word until your lips come staggeringly desperate for proximital enclosure…and THEN….pour another glass. You need to make the night last…not buckle and crumble with one single fucking kiss. 

Wine can do many things whiskey cannot…for instance…THE ABOVE. At least for me. Whiskey is good for writing. Wine is good for thinking about writing and then turning to fucking the first name in your contacts list in your cell. It’s clockwork. Genius clockwork. 

They say life isn’t fair…I say it IS fair. It’s always fair. You get what you deserve…and if you fail to employ genuine romance…you GET WHAT YOU DESERVE. 

Wine and dine someone today. Tonight. Tomorrow. Tomorrow night. Now. Just do it with honesty. Wine never lies, and neither should you.

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