I’m too bored to fuck
I tell my hookup so he leaves
and here I am, alone again
inside the morning and my bed
where I text the west coast
things they won’t read for hours
because they’re always in the past.
Wake up! It’s Friday. There’s a war.
And also a great sale on denim.
But now that skinny jeans are out
my mood has fallen like the markets.
I have nothing to wear and nothing
to live for. Once more I’m here
writing this so I won’t get drunk
at 4pm. “No, never!” I say to the doctor
when he asks me if I’m sad.
Depressed. Despondent. “No!” I tell him.
“And plus your new haircut
really makes you look like Keanu.”
He blinks. He doesn’t get it.
I’m mortified. I leave. I get a drink.
It’s 4:52. What did I do all afternoon?
In another life I’ll have self-control
or actually be happy.
Has anyone ever had both?
Has bombing other countries
ever worked? I don’t think so!
I’m anti war and anti feeling
sorry for yourself in poems.
Maybe my doctor just didn’t like
The Matrix. Maybe I should adopt
a dog so I don’t have to get a boyfriend.
Maybe (even though skinny jeans
are over), when they bury me—
and I do hope it’s on a Friday
so people can get their shit together
on the weekend—maybe, just maybe
I’ll be allowed to dress however
I want. And eat whatever I like.
And drink whenever I please.
And my hair will look perfect forever
because that’s what death is, right?
That’s where we’re all going
and that’s why we’re all drinking
and fighting and acting so vicious.
What’s wrong with us, really?
What are we doing here?
I’m convinced we all just need to get laid.