It's What Love Means.

For all the lesser beings, those confused about love and life, a massive load of penis-envy floats around our city here on Sunday nights.

I felt a cleanliness in a dirty place. A place with disrobed Christmas dolls exalted by a semi-solid musk of greasy demons with sweaty balls and leaking peni.

The cleanliness was within an angel flailing her limbs above me in the rafters. This flailing I initially believed was the product of a Hurling Hex, similar to our hero Harry P on his broom, but slowly I began see that it was actually graceful dancing.

I proceeded to fall into a dreamy and sulking half-conscious state of drooling.

I thought to myself, “Jesus, how could this new God be here in this place?? She is a diamond! In a sandwich plated before an indestructible-teeth toddler that LOVES diamond sandwiches!”

I was lost in sorrow.

“She cannot shine in this shitty gut… Never in this shitty, shitty gut.”

I am indeed a hellion bastard, just as inferior as the rest of the panting strangers with tensing crotch muscles. How can it be? That I am here feasting with the other greasy beasts?

My beautiful half-naked dancing angel looked down upon my watery eyes and said to me,

“you are in the right place, Ryan. You belong here with me.” My crotch muscles released. “Now open your wallet and give me your shitty dollar.”

And so I did. No thrift store could ever buy me in like this.

I feel in love with a woman with giant boots and tiny neon shorts.

I feel in love with a go-go dancer at Dante’s.