|every unhappy ending is unhappy in its own way. self-portrait in rome 2011|
the half-life of love affairs
Long before all that jazz I got sick, and he called to see how I was, then showed up at my hotel room door.
He observed me all feverish and disheveled in my nightgown and I thought, “I don’t even know him, and he brings me medicine - what a nice guy!”
Except there are no nice guys; just ones with different degrees of attraction to you, plus all the different degrees of their inclination to act on it.
Cut to months later, in which I’m carrying this slowly decaying feeling around, waiting for it to die, trying not to get infected.
They say it ain’t over till the fat lady sings and I’m looking for her in every joint in town, wanting to grab her and say “Goddamn it, sing lady – sing!”