Ham on Rye
| March 29, 2009 | Filled under Blog |
…reminded me of all those dreary times of sitting on some boy’s floor while he rapturously quoted Bukowski at me, as though somebody with a bleeding liver getting drunk and vomiting on a junkie hooker is somehow meaningful to a 16 year old boarding school kid. Such a strange revelation in wishful thinking. Such a hallmark of the juvenile male, the kind of guy who invites you over and then just plays guitar for hours while you sit there, and then as you’re leaving tries awkwardly to grab your boob. And yet I wanted to french all of them, regardless. The boys, not Bukowski, OBVIOUSLY.
In high school I began dating a boy who was four years older than me, a boy who was on his way to college in New York before I could even legally drive. He idolized Bukowski, and gave me the book “Women” to read, which I found disgusting and confusing. Once, I was hanging out at his house, trying to amuse myself while he napped on the floor beside me, and I reached under his bed to find a spiral notebook filled with poetry about little girls’ panties.
(Link via tinyluckygenius.)
YES! So stoked to see my Bukowski rant getting spread around in the interweb. How many girls have this story? Far, far too many. The poetry about little girls’ panties is way too much. We need a support group.