bite a bitch like george whipple in the staircase.

i’ll throw you in that armbar with the quickness. twisting joints like a contortionist. that’s the start of a career chase, i’m eating cheeseplate. edward scissor, my existence is anomaly. thirty dollars gets you pussycat, right in the kitchen where they cooking at. said my dick was too small, i went and got the surgery. mind sick like magic johnson’s dick. brock fish, polaroids, bitches named inga. i’m flicks in shirts and dress pants like i’m oakley. ocean avenue, the family straight from kosovo. i jerk my penis off at the precinct dog. 

listening to action bronson always reminds me of the moments i spent walking around chicago alone, ipod turned up to obscene volumes, taking in the sights.

the cab ride to jess and owen’s house, checking out the train stops and sweaty pedestrians crossing streets. walking to the convenience store, where middle-aged mexican-american women telling me to “have a nice day, baby.” i love it when women i’m not dating call me baby, especially ones older than me. the beautiful young lady with birds on a phone wire tattooed to her thigh who lived a block away from us. the downpour of rain in logan square, the kids skateboarding at the train stop. riding the train while tidal waves force themselves on without a CTA pass. rain, rain, rain. intolerably hot days. the gap outlet. the foot locker that didn’t have the hat i wanted in my size. it was a cubs hat, anyway. owen would have killed me.


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