Can Open Worms Everywhere
Believe me, I know. One touch, is all it takes. I suck it out of your cells like a biological download and your whole stinking, boring life hits me like a ton of bricks. I usually get nauseous.
One more cigarette, what the hell? You could see it on their drone-like and passive faces, flushed now with cocktails and nicotine and pointless lust, the whole sad bunch of them, wasting their pathetic lives in offices and bars, bars and offices, an endless stream of coffee and whiskey sours, diuretics that kept them pissing and moaning as the weeks dragged on into months and then into centuries and then into coffins, a sudden and unexpected death as a vein swelled within and said enough of this shit, already, and flooded them out, one eyeball dilating to enormous scale, bloodshot and staring, eternally.
And with them the sad fading girls in their demure office outfits, pantsuits and short skirts, white blouses and stockings, high heels and conservative cleavage. Hair up. Expectations down. Trained after all these years to drink like a man, to wobble in on heels and do shots and smoke and curse and tolerate the greedy wet stares they got from all around, desperate to share their brief and unexciting life with some other bottom-feeding wage-earner, pooling their resources to buy a termite-ridden house in the suburbs, raise some uninspired kids, buy a minivan.
Was the bar any different from a thousand others in the city, in the state, in the world? Not really. Clientèle differed in each but whether it was Martini-soaking wall street types or bikers grousing over nickel beers they were all wasting their time and drowning sorrows they had neither the time nor the intellect to even comprehend. An instinctual drive to gather together and become inebriated and complain complain complain, and then maybe try to procreate and pass their sins on to sallow chubby progeny who would gladly shoulder the burden which would eventually drive them into a similar bar, like a hammer pounding in a nail.
