You hate me and you don’t even know me and you still have calves like a NFL lineman. I can take solace in that. I can tell that once you wore spare drapes like clothes that you were lonely and the only love you made was late at night to ham sandwiches and fists full of potato salad. Now, you’re hard and hateful, a size zero chained to a treadmill with old gravy stain battle scars on your sweatshirt.
Just one more minute on the treadmill, just one more pound on the scale, just one more inch off my ass and they will love me.
It’s because I didn’t pick you isn’t it? It’s because I can see all the demons that were hiding under your drape clothing (called a moo moo in
I don’t care that you were fat, that you don’t wear makeup and you’re hair is flat and oily. What I do care about is the fact that you’re trying your damndest to fuck up my chances with your friend and in your subconscious you think that maybe someday we will have a chance. Wrong. So, let’s call a truce. Let’s say I leave a peace offering of a ham sandwich and potato salad on the treadmill every day at the gym. Let’s say you smile and maybe grow back a few curves. Let’s say you stop hating me and maybe I’ll get over hating you. Let’s pretend that you’re a nice person, let’s pretend that you never wore drapes and I’ll pretend when I'm fucking your friend that we’re on the treadmill and you’re watching with a ham sandwich in your fist.
3 comments:
a ham sandwich and potato salad sounds really gross right now.
and yes, gotta love those narcissistic onces who think you're after them when it's the friend you want.
you'd better add some chips to that truce.
now excuse me while i go waste away on the elliptical....
i'm liking the friend, too. it must be the bandwagon syndrome.
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