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August 30, 2014 | Dispatches

Pap Smear for Beerfest

Sean Kilpatrick

Pap Smear for Beerfest photo

Everyone assumes we need more them. I suppose we’re a belch the plants are having. Boy, I’d like to get my fucking hands on whoever invented hello. I was non-consensually bussed here. That’s my motto. If you safely attest your independence in a relationship, you are trespassing on the word love. Just call it the adult arrangement it fucking is. Call marriage your 401 decay bait. And don’t let me catch you writing poems ever. I lived with a functional tourist who was so obsessed with her life she scoped my melee for the autobiographical win, to prove herself less vapid by proximity of her loving wastebasket, quite the pesky goal to accomplish, poor domestically retarded and litigious thing. People in hell don’t understand what being a goddamn guest means. But she deigned multiple existences like a good android mimicking her local DIY placemat and could waitress the underbelly of any passing vibe, enough flashy Lana Del Ray coke for a case of chronic dyspareunia. She came giggling free amid the detached hipster gentry at her maternal side (extending her unwanted and clumsy help to my personal fucking nightmare of a city) and a whirlwind multistate sideshow of an overly edited by me minor literary relic to paper cut her hairy bottom with. Meanwhile, my savings have lightly pelted her comedic flow and I will now, alone, build the second life without her I do not care to live. Some losers can’t get hired because their full time job had a D-cup and a drunk dad, and she enacted upon you the only divorce she knows, the only swinging mom petrified of her liver spots. I can’t fill the shiftless societal deficit? I moved across the country to pay for this person’s food. I later, against anyone’s better judgment, offered her the consummate life package, despite my artistic wimpiness, having obtained the full time job and weight loss America’s idiot code demands. You can call that shit untreated because she never returned thing one except a superficial mockery of my language with her ass. I sure wasn’t playing the fucking video games I should have during my formative years. I was suckering my life to another ideal some Cheshire ad men bullied up one fine Christmas. Now it makes loose connective sense that corporate parent dough tanned her STDs in Europe. I have trouble coming inside anyone who has backpacked across Europe. The rocketing acidity of her vaginal fluid still infiltrates my piss. Guess what kind of misogyny the previous fictions just hinted at? No, I’m all better. I know now that the real misogyny believes love can possibly happen on an even plain. I’m back on that state misogyny, not giving a fuck who or how many I low with, an ordainment so prevalent, if we zoom out of my petty and frankly silly (but shat so fucking civil, my delicate indie natalists) abused-male experiences (yes, she smacked me and herself around, but the glucose on her hoof put a moratorium on the potential effect, not that passersby would have jumped in to swaddle my booboos and why not bitch out if you’re already a willing and acknowledged rube for this crooning love elf, no, I never struck a female, too pricey: I’d have to put it in skywriting if I did) you’ll see when a gal lets you have done with you and cruises on, surely there are beaucoup political deserves, none of which I’ve cashed in on yet. You can’t ban my books for saying this shit because no one bought them anyway. Some guys have all the luck. It’s as easy to recount as the burgers I spoiled into her. She was a little stray visiting everyone at our useless and quarantined state college. The angels were masturbating under their togas when I took my turn. Her pussy was taller than she was, stacked with janitors and professors, the spectrum of a long made up victimhood. Halfwit stoner living out a poor Marie Calloway impersonation, a zero extent precursor to that far higher punk genius exposing men at the base risk of her person, kitten troweled through her puke to connote a grand fuck you, coming back with the evidence in blood. The closest there is to a contemporary Solanas, if my opinion in this or any matter happened. My ex was the preschool version of that amazingly sexy militant. I don’t care about a feminist unless she wants me dead. No feminist cares about me because she could have me dead at the drop of a hairpin. Or my ex had a divergent take, because here I am exposing my penile terrors sans editorial assistance and bereft overall, flanked by the mirror, yes, to Calloway a man, not necessarily revealing we’re tricks, but to eliminate the emotionally atomic coochie coo of a relationship by the female posture within, string him along over the years and bandy the result of your disguised coldness, only showing affection when he catches on or tries to leave your indifferent clit (several motherfucking times). Toward the end, you’re falsely humble in the spotlight, the turmoil of his former ladies drove him daffy, the goodbye west end armchair diagnosis from Miss I miss dad (the type of little brat who subjects her non-lit friends to her writings at a party – we’re all pensively gathered, dear), denying you’re a couple while awaiting the next mark, and this primary dipshit is still holding his hope to combat everyone’s proof otherwise. But his anger at having always suspected your tired acting as a put on and not a relationship isn’t particularly hazardous or sellable. That in finally seeing the trap realized he merely uses his universally ignored hate sentences to harp at you is nowhere close to, for instance, visiting a random fucking violent john who hasn’t staked his shitty life on you, yes? I don’t resent my ex, I resent the truly dangerous maniac she’ll never encounter unless karma exists. You know if I had an armory in a copless world, she’d still get weakly cuddled because a sucker don’t change, and that’s the best part for her, probably, if she remembers me at all. Ha-ha! I’m just trying to inform you, craft beer stand guru of this jocular and new faux-masculinity, this geeked era sharing laughter below the belt, this quack anachronistic shitshow of tee hee facial combs and exceptional, exceptional dressers. What if I fabricated my cuckoldry in order to throw all the borrowed comments of the self-possessed onto the donation platter of a dog's anus? What then? Dogs are better than us because they don’t require walls to shit in public. I’ll forget you thicker than you never cared. It matters so little I fucking wrote it down.

Pointless rejoinder: Any male taking up arms against the drastic content (from lame boredom pose to defending anyone for anyone’s favor) of a poetic work (or anything, or anything) is smartly placing himself at the forefront of all the sexual status his public stance may reward him. Conversely, any female complaint is absolutely correct. Good luck with being correct. Everyone is so fucking hirable these days they think any dispute means blow for the police. “We are all hanged or should be.”

 

image: Solomon Mortimer


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