Scene: Pete's Candy Store, Williamsburg, BK. I'm waiting for my friends' band to go on. I've walked what feels like 6 miles through an industrial area. I'm a little nervous, glad to see my friends, in need of a beer. A girl I don't know sits down across from me and starts fondling the arm of the boy next to her.
"I'm ----," she says. She has those big shiny eyes that make you think the person looking at you is stupid or stoned.
"Jen." I shake her hand.
"Are you Dave's girl?"
"Nope."
"Matt's?"
"Nope."
Blink, blink. "Well, whose girl are you?"
I lean over the table. "Baby, I'm my own girl."
At least I didn't have to man the merch table.
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It's funny how everything is brought back to poop. Even better, hobo poop.
ReplyDeleteLess hobo poop, more frenching.
ReplyDeleteThis we like.
--Taupey
And then you started wearing combat boots...
ReplyDeleteYou hob0wned her!
ReplyDeleteWell. Hobo poop.
ReplyDeleteCome on.
Indeed.
Be your own person!
Identity through suffering!
I am sad for that girl.
ReplyDelete