Minnesota’s got me by the balls. I’ll spare you the seasonal affective disorder sob story, because that’s a given. The women here are far more depressing. It used to be they just wanted someone to listen to Courtney Love with them while they cut pentagrams into their inner thighs under a rickety ceiling fan adorned with dismembered Barbie dolls that swung through the haze of bad incense, but now, in this disgusting future, it’s become something altogether asinine. Gone are the days when they could fall in love with a dream. Now they’re all democrats or republicans, pro-lifers or pro-choice. The women I’ve met in the last few years have all been definable, predictable, and self-salient. They went to college and were given opinions. Now they believe that “The Red Wheelbarrow” by William Carlos Williams was a great poem because it described color so well. They’re anti-contrarians. They set aside the exotic islands and settled for Baltimore. Well, I’ve still got the brochures, baby. I shit maps of Mazatlan every day.
I’ve met my share of politicos who fall prey to convention rederick. I’ve met fans of Oprah’s book club. I decided long ago that I’d rather suture my cock hole shut with a cattle prod than go on a dinner date. What happened to slamming whisky at the Turf Club, or listening to vinyl with a joint and a bottle of Oregon Pinot?
The women of Minnesota are either in hiding, hitched, or dead. So let’s drink wine and slam into each other like fleshy boats on the misty Lake Superior. Let’s talk smart, drink well, and let our minds be pleased. I could go on much longer and I probably should, but I’ve been drinking Beefeater on the rocks with a few allergy pills and I’m about pass out. Goodnight, you torrential homebodies.
