Written Work
Did you know that Nietzsche died of syphilis?
I can’t remember if that’s actually true or not,
but it made me think of you.
Lots of things make me think of you-
like the smell of shitty hotel shampoo,
the way it doesn’t lather for shit
and doesn’t quite mask the smell of alcohol and I feel like an asshole because you’re the paragon of beauty and perfection and I’m a fucking mess who’s floundering in the real world.
You are corduroy and I am denim,
but maybe that doesn’t make sense,
because I never seem to get my words quite right.
I don’t think I will ever have an experience quite as erotic
as teaching you how to shotgun a beer on that hotel bed,
our biceps touching as I perforated the can with a shitty hotel pen.
Judging by the geyser of suds, I think it’s safe to say that didn’t go well.
I guess it takes practice, but I’m sure you’ll get the hang of it eventually.
Maybe that’s the one special skill I actually have.
I mean, I thought I was a good writer, but that was shot to hell when I met you.
You think I should put shotgunning on my resume instead?
All this is to say I’m sorry.
I’m sorry for being an asshole and I’m sorry that’s all I’ve ever known.
I’m sorry that I’m not whatshisname and I can’t play chess and drink chardonnay with you like he can.
I’m sorry that I don’t separate my laundry by color.
I’m sorry that I don’t own a pair of dress shoes.
I’m sorry that I don’t condition my hair so it’s never soft and shiny like yours.
I’m sorry that I couldn’t tell you who Andromeda is if you put a gun to my head.
I’m sorry, because I know you probably hate me, but I still love you.