Late-Night Weekday Stream of Consciousness Prose Entry

There’s something about a woman - Some fiery determination that leaves me helpless to resist. Men are men, women are gods. Old pagan gods filled with irrational wrath and fury. Crazy gods. The fun gods.

I can’t hold any sentimentality for other men. Fuck, I provoked a fistfight with the old drunken doctor that brought me into this world. It was nearly 2 decades after his shaky hand cut the umbilical cord, when happenstance brought my drug-addled ass to his ER. That night started in the company of women – one too many, to be precise. I didn’t care, and still don’t - Sentimentality is for women – That’s what makes them special.

I actually prefer the company of men. There’s no pressure to be spectacular, no expectation of brilliance. It’s comforting. It’s safe. It’s boring. It’s nice. Nice is boring. Nice doesn’t get you laid.

Women are whiskey, men are water. There’s an intoxication in being around that certain girl – More like a shot of epinephrine dragging you out of a weekday morphine overdose. An excitement, a fear - A sharp knife slashing through the haze – Amplifying the high by tingeing it with frantic shock. Paralysis, poison, oxygen deprivation – Love, lust, desire. Semantics.

I sit drinking vodka and sour cherry juice. Drinking a girl drink, and that’s not bad. Pouring it out, drinking it down – slightly drunk and mostly damaged. Punching at a keyboard like drunks before me waved fists at the sky - Wishing that that special girl was still awake, or that any other one was knocking at the door.