Inside Doug's Head

I am not a number, I am… What's that stuff they make glue out of? I'm that. Forever swirling, forwards and upwards, but always sticky. Sometimes, a little sad.

Oh, why did I come out for drinks tonight?

So many people, so many words, so little talent. So much social angst, misdirected and malformed. Words, just words, no direction, no arc, stupid masquerading as erudite. Hippies, truck stop lesbians, and soy fed man boys. All 31 genders are represented here tonight.

What is with the long rambling back stories? Is this narrative about your tingling cunt really based on a story from the Old Testament? He had salty fingers? Was he eating Pringles while he was banging you? Oh, you are such a biblical whore. It’s mentally tedious listening to overprivileged white girls moaning about their orgasmless sexual encounters with strangers and people they don’t know. Waking up the next morning after a night of drunken fornication, covered in a crusty mix of vomit and come. After the fourth time it happens to you, Girl, it may be partly your fault.

No point. They just end and move on to the next one. I can’t tell; is it over? How about now? Nope, here comes another.

“Every successful poet…” you say? Is there such a thing? How do you measure success? Trigger warning: You all suck. Your liberal arts education is showing, and you wonder why people like Mark Zuckerberg say a college degree is a waste of time.

Love and shit like that. All of my work is unfinished. Yeah, weed will do that to you.


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