I know it: I’m a skunk. When I see a lady in tights, down in the dumps, I move in. I take her out to tea. I take her out to a movie. I shaved down my skull to look ten years younger. I say ‘hello’ to everyone in town. I know my way around. They can’t believe I had late stage Lyme Disease. And I tell the lady I’m with, “Yeah, for a time, my confidence, it was really eroded.” I look down. But they don’t see half of what I know. How I got too close where I should have not. Got caught. The short of it was, my old job? Kaput. I wanna say I’m a victim of Orson Welles. That my little red sled, my Rosebud, got burned up, too, on that snowy, white hill. I want to overcome my original traumas, my mother, my father, my love affairs with blue raincoats and wearing all my life, on both sleeves, the songs of Leonard Cohen. That’s what I do. Can’t help it. I know it. I’m a creep. Posing as a one hundred percent beeswax candle burning like romance on your bedside table. Why, I’m never going to be famous. And I’m never going to be rich. Blah blah blah. It works. I’ll taking a spinning class at the Racquet Club and ride my wheels there. And before you know it, I’ll be checking out the tight ass of some other hot … Well, you know it. I’m just so lonely, and so incomplete. I believe in karma, for sure. Can’t help it. I’m a professional player. For sure. Don’t doubt it. Come on, date me. Go out to dinner. I’ll pay. Shop together at Whole Foods. You buy. Let me swap out the light summer screen with your heavy glass storm door. I’m strong. Even wash your car. Yeah, do it. And I know you’ll feel sorry for me—no kids no wife no family blah blah blah so fucking sad—and mix that all up with your own good kindness and true, honest compassion. After you, when you catch on and we’re done, I’ll move on. There’s always another hot dame around, all confused with how to use the scale at the Club. There she is. She’s hot, jabbing at the on/off button with her sneaker’s green and pink toe. A pro, I know exactly where to begin. I’ll move in. [Start at top line of this paragraph, again.] Starting up the pattern again. Another tale to tell, as the LCD screen lights up with the nimble prodding of my foot and my verbal aplomb, as I venture to recount, for the weeks that it takes, my ongoing saga of romantic woe. In the end, the numbers add up. Women are precisely and exactly and predictably the same: my saddened male lifetime, swapped for a feather down bed. The pattern? It’s clockwork. The women all know me. I say “I’m alone.” I reap what I’ve sown.
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