Thought Catalog

George Bush

“C’mon, let’s go out…” your friend says.
“But it’s so cold out……..” you whine.
“Rachel it’s July.”
“But I’m so tiiiirreedddd….”
“But this morning you said that you wa–”
“SAID SHMAID I SAY A LOT OF THINGS I DON’T MEAN.”

No me gusta. I’ll tell you when I’ve had enough! I am man’s goddamn best friend! I WILL DO WHAT I WANT. YOU CAN’T HANDLE THE WOOF, MARGERY. Now hit me with another tequila shot. Hold my jaw open and pour it into my mouth for me. I’ll just lick the salt and lime off the floor.

Staring down at her flaming red thicket, I didn’t know where to begin. I felt tragically overwhelmed, like the time I tried benching 140lbs in front of my father. I closed my eyes and began licking willy-nilly. I was ballparks from any so-called G-spot.

More than other television shows, it yields to watching and rewatching, because it is a show about repetition and circularity. Though you own all three seasons of the show on DVD, you now open your internet browser and stream an episode over Netflix Instant, because this seems easier, somehow.

Thinking about killing myself is, basically, my national sport. You felt feeble at the end. You weren’t having fun. You’d been chafing under the weight of your foul persona since the 70’s and, when your body started to give out, it became too much. However, you had obligations; not least of which to a sad little 18 year old who drank himself to sleep for the first time the night you died.