Hey you little shit.
I could step on that bitch with my back heel in a drunken stumble and kill'er. I could say just one polysllabic word and make her head explode. I could pose so dashingly she'd slit her wrists with her own tongue. Do you have any fucking clue what I have done? Do you have any clue how many little hearts have been shoved under my unconscious head? Do you know how many metaphors people have tried to stuff me inside of?
We have similar stories, oh ho. Always getting caught and never kept. Only you and I know that is not as gallant as it seems, cowardly sucking down our Canadian whiskeys, prowling around the room hoping to be seen and ho, we always are, seen--in the only way we like to be seen--low ligthting and blurry, when it's too late at night to ask any important questions.
But you don't see me dragging around my tinker toys, letting them jack off my ego for more than a night, because then they start saying things about you and I'm telling you darling, she's not saying anything nice. It shouldn't surprise you--People like us don't consist of too many nice things.
Do you have any idea who I am?
You do, I am you only with a moticom of integrity in our filthy business. You should know better. Why would you break the rules and ruin my universe so helplessly? If this is not how to play the game I have years to apologize for.
That bitch was fabulous, you scotch-blind little shit
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