I have no problem admitting to you what I was doing. Shame and I recently filed for a divorce. After I signed the papers I took what I could carry and checked into a hotel.
I was watching her from my window. From above she wasn’t much. She wasn’t much from any angle, but the top of her was so nothing. Grey roots and an undignified death. Veins and glasses. Teeth and compromise. She was smoking beside the plastic trash bin, and had placed something atop its cover. A magazine, opened bills, too many keys that opened too many smart mouths.
I was eating a dipped chicken tender. I drifted for too long, and a blob of honey mustard sauce fell from the fried meat and landed on my dick (I didn’t have pants on because whenever I check into a hotel room I do three things immediately and in the following order once I reach the room: piss, jack off, and eat something).
It was enough to bring the senses back and send my eyes to the muted television.
The closed captioning:
“BILL LAMB TALKS ABOUT THE AROMA OF CIGARRET SMOKE. WHAT ABOUT THE AROMA OF VOMIT, BEDBANS AND ANTISEPTIC? I’VE NEVER BEEN INSIDE A HISPITAL THAT DIDN’T STINK.”
My brain pushing through the soft palette:
“Ah, yes, here we are.”
Bird’s eye mediocrity. Oven-ready genitalia. Bad typists who hate the deaf. I have no problem admitting to you what I was doing.This won’t last forever. Collecting has become one-sided. Hopefully someone out there will be willing to trade with me.