We will again.
Most likely, we will again.
Slap up against one another, sweat, sway, and–most importantly–subsume. This is the goal. I become we. Shoulder blade knife fights and illiosacrums poking and prodding. Have your tickets out and ready. The Sportatorium is buzzing tonight. National act’s in town. The kids are whole hog on the merch tables. Sizzling aisles, and the bars have long been overrun, and who the fuck brought a beach ball? Dicks and tits and pussies and asses and everyone singing, most dancing, some crying, and the drugs coming on harder than you’d anticipated.
The drugs always come on harder than you’d anticipated.
You play the Chuck Berry covers, and we’ll pay ya and undulate a little. Sing your words back at ya. It’s a deal. Bring the big amps. We like it loud. Deal? Deal. Meet you back here in three months.
Are you drunk and wobbling around YouTube again?
I’m not drunk.
Backsliding son of a bitch.
We all have our faults.