I NEED MORE BOOZE

Last night I was visited by my bright dream muse. She was young and blonde, aggressive and powerful. She would let me cuddle her and put her arms around my waist in the front row of the relevant concert.

"Should I get an alarm from the grocery store on our way home tonight?" I said.
"I don’t care," she said, "I’m not going to sleep with you, remember?"
"I remember. I said, but lately I’ve been reconsidering it."

She said that she wouldn’t sleep with me because I couldn’t tell her how to save money on her cable bill.

"I don’t have cable," I said. "I don’t watch TV."
"What do you do?" she said.
"I read," I said. She liked that. She wouldn’t sleep with me because I couldn’t repair her kitchen stove or cook her a meal using just the pipes. She wouldn’t sleep with me because I couldn’t open a difficult box that had been warped out of shape. She said, I don’t need you because you’re older and I can already do anything you can. She said it, and I knew I had been wasting my life.


So what can you do? I recited Howl from memory. But even that was wrong. I found a book of poems in her bedroom and read Howl from the page and the words were completely different. I on her bed sulking surrounded by posters of Ashley Simpson and Liz Light.

I woke up knowing that today was a good day for art.