Not the beer, but the tired desperate feeling that comes so unceremoniously after three days of peeing from my butthole. I don’t want to deserve this anymore. And I remember why I wrote “DOG” on a random piece of cardboard now. Yes, they’re everywhere here, roaming free on the roads, at the beaches, all curious cute and for some reason always young, all pups. It wasn’t that though. I remember now. There was a little voice in my head that night and it said in a sharp whisper, a girl’s tone, someone familiar but I can’t remember who. She said to me, “You’re a dog, Brian. You’re such a dog.” And she despised me when she said it. In my mind’s eye, I ticked my head to the left, because I knew what she meant, but I wasn’t sure if being a dog was such a bad thing really. He’s loyal. He’s most always a true mirror. He reflects, he’s reciprocal. There’s no games with him except stick and ball and belly rub and right behind the ears. And yeah, he wants to fuck a lot, but he just wants to make you happy. He’s man’s best friend.
And then there’s man on the other hand. We’re scheming, deceitful, and so many times despicable beings. A dog can be this, but not on its own. It needs a man to model after. We’re wretched. We’re never satisfied. Even with paradise right behind us.
Listen to me, wow. The pain of my digestive tract is coming through my fingers. I can’t wait to be through this.
