Drunken Rant # 541 Clark Handlebar I’m like the caged monkey in the lab who keeps getting his balls zapped every time he reaches for the banana. Only my banana is pussy and unlike the money, I never learn. And now she's become just another wrinkle in my forehead. Another set of unfortunate circumstances to ponder when I sit around and think about what went wrong. Another slash in the loss column. A sinister blurry photo to silently tack to the memory board. Just putting a face to the shame. There are too many “why's” and “what if’s” to count here. Too many idiotic variables and way too many second chances that fell by the wayside. I've taken too many turns for the worse. After three you end up right back where you started. Only with a little less gas and a little less drive, desire, and determination to take another stupid lap. Cysaphis has to roll that boulder up that god damned hill for eternity and you think you've got it rough. Sure. You can try and feel bad for the poor sucker, but nobody can honestly and truly relate or empathize with anyone else (really?). The instant you try, you begin thinking about you're own problems. You start talking about what things were like for you and suddenly it's not about the poor sucker anymore. And you say something like, "I know what he feels like." Or “I feel your pain.” But you don't. You know what you feel like. You remember your pain. You think because you've experienced something similar that you can relate. You think that makes you a compassionate person when the truth is you’re a selfish prick bastard just like me. Ah but it makes us feel good to think that we share a common bond with the person we are trying to console. We all want to feel closer to someone and less alone than we truly are. We all want to feel like we are bonded by our pain and experiences as human beings, but the fact remains that we are alone. Don't believe me? Ask anyone who's ever died and they'll tell you. We are all alone in grand scheme of things. And so I think about her when I clumsily tie my shoe, pull my hat down low and stumble out to the bar. I'm looking for something. Anything that can help me to forget her for just a little while. A small patch of heaven to climb into for just a little while. A petite brunette with small hand-sized tits and pouty lips. A nameless fuck in the dark for just a little while. I end up talking with a drunken dumpy blonde. Her ass is large but flat. Her tits are large, but sloppy. Her belly is large and hangs over the top of her pants. She’s telling I'm cute and that she likes my hat and my jacket. I can hardly stand her. She’s telling me she likes my eyes and my lips. I can't decide whether fucking her or killing her would be more fun. She likes my hands. I'd like another drink. We end up at my place and the decision is made to fuck her rather than push her through the wood chipper. I wasn't really interested in fore-play with this one. I just held on tight closed my eyes and thought about Jeevany (see paragraph two). The smell of her. The taste. The feel. It all came rushing back in a painfully exquisite sensory overload, the end result of which was a pathetic glob on Cindy’s or Sherry’s or Sharon’s big white belly. I don't know how long it lasted. After word I handed her a T-shirt to clean up with, went to the freezer, took a couple of long pulls of the Golden Gate vodka and passed out. When I woke up, I thanked god that she was gone.