My name is Tony (not really)
I am an addict (really).
Sex is my drug,
Women are my dealer
and I love them all.
And I need to stop.
I need to take a break, clear my head, make better decisions.
I have often said, and hold to be very true, that we think the most clearly, we see things more truthfully, during the 2 minutes following an orgasm than at any other time. What ever drug is in our head during that moment is a freakin' truth serum. Our physical needs are met, our sensual self is at rest, and the world comes in to focus.
And I saw things I didn't like.
So, the next few posts will be really bad poetry, because, lets be honest, I'm a really bad poet. Most Internet poetry is just awful. There is a reason I can't get published, it's because I suck. But, that is beside the point (right there, next to the point, beside it, but not THE point). I'm going to post it anyway.
So enjoy (yea, right) a week of poems that don't rhyme, meters that don't match, and some of the most twisted and mangled metaphors you'll ever see. And don't expect it to be "so bad it's funny" because it's not. It's not an Adam Sandler movie, it's a a Rob Schnieder movie, it's "Duece Bigalow: Male Gigalo 12 - Adventures at Guantanamo Bay".
Plus, I'm going to be in Houston on business where the Internet is shut down tighter than a Nun's behind, and if I allow myself to sign-in at the hotel, I'll wake up 12 hours later, late for work, my pants still half off, and some random clip of gap-toothed teenagers with big hooters getting it in the ass from "daddy" and the hotel room smelling like Porn Day at Boy's Camp. How's that for TMI Tuesday?
See ya' all later.