“Whose Dog Are You?”

The romanticism is never as romantic as you think it will be.

The cheap Dale’s cost double what you thought it would.

The rat that ran under your foot didn’t understand the Jurassic Park reference you screamed at your girlfriend as she ran down the street in hysterics.

The bartender clearly didn’t catch your sarcastic annoyance at being carded at 2:30 AM in a mostly-empty bar. Your beard is older and dirtier than he is.

The dog with the ball in its mouth just wanted your love and attention. “You and me both,” you said to the dog as you petted it on its head. Its eyes beamed as it just stood there staring at you, wagging its tail, waiting for you to grab the slobbered ball from its mouth and throw it to the other end of the bar. Whose dog are you? What the hell are you doing in this bar? Will you buy me another round?

The trash is piled higher. The piss in the toilet is stale because people no longer flush. They pick and choose their battles. Piss here, save water. Throw my latte cup into the trash; someone else will do the recycling.

The room is cold because the window doesn’t shut all the way. But it’s okay because the shower only gets warm if it feels like it. The shower is having a bad morning. It doesn’t matter that I’m also having a bad morning. The shower needs massaging. Off to the masseuse with you, my friend. Get those kinks worked out. Think about your mental health. I’ll stand here shivering until you return refreshed and renewed.

The weather is awful. It should be snow and freezing your balls off. But the world is on fire. Australia is burning. Koalas and roos are dying by the trillions. Humans are sitting around melting in their seats. Winter is hot. Your snow doesn’t even have a chance to melt. Your romanticism is dead before it leaves your brain. Keep drinking, friend, for the rats and dogs and dying animals. You’re up next.

  1. <<  Previous
  2. Next  >>