It’s late on a Saturday night. All the lights are off except for a single Cinnamon candle slowly burning on my desk. My bare legs are crossed, warm from the radiator, just inches away. The wind is pounding on my thin glass windows causing them to whistle a song I’ve never heard before. Is it R&B? I’ll never know. I just finished an extra thick peanut butter and Salmon sandwich. Its flavor danced with my tongue as I washed it down with a warm glass of you. Did I say you? Oops. I must have been dreaming again. I meant to say Hawaiian Punch…the diet kind (I’m fasting). I’ve been thinking about you a lot lately. What’s your name? What are your hobbies? How fast is your metabolism? If I had a book of answers to all my hearts questions I’d never stop reading.
I mustn’t lie, it’s a painful to think you don’t know that I’m here…waiting…wishing. For six weeks I’ve written your name on my hamstrings every night before I’ve gone to sleep. Bruce? Doug? Benson? Will I ever know? Will I ever meet your parents? Could you see me baking cookies in your childhood kitchen with your mother? I like to picture her in a wheel chair, with only one arm. I used to call her Peg, but now I call her mom. I see our children; baby Blake and young Pumpkin Face. They’re playing in the backyard with that dog that has been eating our trash for the past couple months. He’s a pest, but he’s a good dog. I just heard a soft whisper at my window. Was it you? No, of course not. It was a stray Cat or maybe a Black Bear. I want to know everything about you. Do you ride wooden Lions often? Is that a football girdle you’re wearing? What do your feet smell like? Did I tell you I bought the same hat as you? I did. It took me eleven months and over thirty two hundred second hand stores, but I found it. I know it’s silly, but I like to think it’s yours. You know the one from the picture. I don’t have any wooden Lions lying around so I make my sick father crouch down while I squat over him with just the hat on. Call me crazy, but I feel closest to you as I straddle my father, imagining him to be a wooden Lion.
Every Sunday since I found your picture on Google images, I’ve gone to, The Long Stone Park, by Chipperton Valley. I sit and pick flowers. I think about butterfly’s. I dream that you’ll pull up on your wooden Lion and take me away from this lonely life. Every time you say the same thing…
You: Hey, what’s a lean Ladybug like yourself sitting there pouting for?
Me: (Wiping the tears from my cheeks) Oh, it’s nothing.
You: Well this wooden Lion wasn’t made for one. (Shirtless, you smile and pat your lap)
Me: Oh I couldn’t. (Blushing I begin to pee in my pants)
You: I ain’t about to let a dame like you get away. Your going to come take a ride on my wooden Lion and I’m going to take you home to bake cookies with my mother.
(Urine now covers my body as I straddle your Lion and take a ride into forever)
A boy can dream, can’t he? I just want you to know, if you’re out there, anywhere, that you’re my man and I’ll let you hold me till whenever you want to let go. Never? The candle is almost out, but my flame is still burning strong for you. If you’re reading this, you’ll know where I’ll be tomorrow…where I’ll be until we are together. The Lion is the king of the jungle, and every king needs his queen. Let me love you. Let me licks your wounds. Let me eat your clothes.
Forever Yours,
Me
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{ 3 comments… read them below or add one }
LOL funny stuff.
This is a gangster blog.
HAHAHA great picture.