A Toothless Gravitas

I am warm with drink as I write to you. A half-century-old barkeep by the name of Nancy tried to show me her new tits tonight, fresh with stitch-and-all, plugged in with cellophane bags of youth. Her hair is brittle and cracked, like planks of wood with chipped paint and she stalks young men like myself from her lofty perch as a neighborhood barmaid. She pleads for a little show and tell behind the old attached liquor store like a drug fiend. Her eyes are narrow and wet, stalking, unfixed and belittling. She speaks to you while looking over your shoulder on account that her boyfriend is a lunatic with a trailer full of cats and shotguns. I don't scold a person for looking for their claim, but I'm tired of being a prospect in some toothless woman's fantasy. For a while it was the flattering "you're so cute" and "I love my boy", but now it's spiraled into the "I want a threesome with you" cast of creepiness. These days I'm marked by ungratifying thoughts of being stretched upon a rack in her living room, with a multitude of starved cats swarming over my bruised body in a scene that hearkens back to a bad Stephen King novel. Some suggest that I leave the po-dunk atmosphere of northern Minnesotan for something more culturally rich, but when I weigh the Ed Gein existence in opposition to the hipsterdom of Uptown, I'm left with no real option. I'd rather move to Portland.