Friday, April 01, 2005

in memory of gonzo writers

I'm sipping my glass of sauvignon blanc thinking how it sucks to not want to grow up when I realise I'm not listening anyway because she's talking about being in love with him maybe, and the last time I listened she wasn't. And then it occurs to me that maybe I haven't listened properly for a few months or something, because it all seems a little sudden. After all she's vowed never to be in love, but I want to say the right thing.

Don't want to jeopardise her being in a relationship through folly of words. Now she's saying she's afraid that I won't like him because the only time we met he was sulking. I disagree, but that was not the right thing to say and now I'm sipping my wine and we're contemplating an argument I had with her friend about WB Yeats when I was in college seven years ago and probably drunk, I can't remember it well.

I'm trying to remember how we skipped back almost a decade and am contemplating shedding a tear at the sadness of it all when her dad rings, he's outside, and I'm trying to say the right thing to make them be in love and make her understand that I can't remember seven years ago and sort of make her feel happier, she's rarely happy, but when she is then she's beautiful, and then it all seems to heavy and after she's gone I finish the bottle alone and feel sad about the fact that hunter is dead and then that gets me to thinking that lots of the good dudes have died recently - miller and derrida and all - so I write this and now I'm tired and I'm going to bed goodnight.

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