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Never In This World | Mr. Prodg: New Chapter!

Never In This World

Never In This World
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Pauli Exclusion Principle

Image by monojussi via Flickr

Sometimes I like to just be by myself.  I like to go to bars where no one knows me and I’m allowed to just chill and vibe without anyone trying to judge my behavior.  Here I was at this bar in Jupiter and I’ve got a couple of pitchers, but my pint is missing.  Head down, chin up – bear with and try to listen.  I’ve got to say alcoholism isn’t my condition -I just think relationships are like a night of drinking. There’s fighting, bitching, and timely interest, there’s highs and instances of blinded missteps.

While it is messed up, a lot of these flings end tomorrow and long term runs are your binges with bottles.  As a male, containers and glasses are women to me, so keep them coming guy until I’m swimming like Swede’s.

A fish in this sea with gills Gilligan needs more. Size doesn’t matter – forty ounce to miller sixty four.  They’re delicious, warming and steady helping pretend no matter the volume they all get me wet in the end.  Contention is spread, unless you’re overdoing it and mixing liquors until you can’t hold your booze to lips…But Nah Never in this world

I’ve got a couple of pitchers, but my pint is missing.  I’m dwelling on relationships during a night of drinking.  Now, I don’t like bars and there’s a “why” to link it; Women are my thirst, this ain’t Somalia and I don’t fight for liquid;  So I like to kick it in parties spent in housing instead of endlessly hunting throughout friendly outings.

You could have a relationship short and stout like patron, but it can still leave you on a couch on your own shouting on phones and regretting your first shots because the phrases list like her consecutive turn offs…Or a bottle of vodka – average and simple to savor.  That’s a same race fling – a common mixture of flavor based off strong bonds that you aren’t really offered.

So add a tart tinge and serve it in martini saucers. Brandy snifter, cocktail or hurricane glass; I fancy liquor and the curves in my grasp, Bourbon that’s sat on my lap meeting the eve – A tot hottie in my Hot Toddie releasing some steam.  All my Irish Cream in these drinks wouldn’t have helped. I’m looking for the right one even if she’s full of herself. It could be a Guinness; that full body with curves, or it could be St. Pattie’s brothers Pauli’s old girl.

I’m so indecisive these beer-backs are problems to curse; I end up double-fisting while spurting monogamous words.  It’ll probably occur, but I’m weary of mixing… I’ll have the Busch at Bud’s and my appearance is filthy; dreary and dizzy while my friends are taking their spin before they Johnny Walker out; and the way she came in. Stumbling to the kitchen the morning after I drink and knocked a beer into a shot glass in the sink… Tragic to think its over with the shards trickled and dropped as resonance asks when it will have stopped.

I’m thinking…

Never in this world

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