Bobby.
Uno.
It’s the way the light refracts off of her eyes as we share coffee in some detestable diner that tells me all I need to know. It’s the way she watches my movements carefully, as a naïve child would, trying to act like an adult. I could smell her fake, ignorant, apathy bullshit from downtown. Well, this is Bobby. This is my proverbial child to deal with, this is my war torn victim acting like a dead body to escape an invisible enemy fire. This is my sinking ship in shallow waters and I know as she sips her coffee her cold eyes are smoldering beneath her psychosis.
This is my city of fucking angels turned in on itself. And as she sits there so carefree, she represents all of nothing. She represents the crotch stains of society, the best of the worst. She knows this well and she smiles for the title loves her back. She is an empty, a vessel of nothing but blood and waste. It would take an island of Prozac to break even with the shit filled waste of a life that is Bobby Salinger. And as she takes her last sip of coffee, her lips curl into a smirk.
“I’m late for work.”
“Let me drive you.”
She pauses, just the slight hesitation I need.
“Okay.”
***
Preservation through self-sacrifice.
Salvation through blue red green silver orange strobe lights.
I sit in a half-destroyed armchair looking up at Bobby and I have to ask:
“Why Salinger?” I yell over the music.
She pauses and smiles.
“Because he’s an asshole.”
And then she starts again.
This is us. This is Bobby, with her legs behind her head, sliding down a rusted gold pole. This is me, sinking into a decaying armchair. I just watch, eyes following the “art” she creating, this queen of fuck ups and no ones.
And I am in a state of perpetual decay.
This is my city of fucking angels turned in on itself. And as she sits there so carefree, she represents all of nothing. She represents the crotch stains of society, the best of the worst. She knows this well and she smiles for the title loves her back. She is an empty, a vessel of nothing but blood and waste. It would take an island of Prozac to break even with the shit filled waste of a life that is Bobby Salinger. And as she takes her last sip of coffee, her lips curl into a smirk.
“I’m late for work.”
“Let me drive you.”
She pauses, just the slight hesitation I need.
“Okay.”
***
Preservation through self-sacrifice.
Salvation through blue red green silver orange strobe lights.
I sit in a half-destroyed armchair looking up at Bobby and I have to ask:
“Why Salinger?” I yell over the music.
She pauses and smiles.
“Because he’s an asshole.”
And then she starts again.
This is us. This is Bobby, with her legs behind her head, sliding down a rusted gold pole. This is me, sinking into a decaying armchair. I just watch, eyes following the “art” she creating, this queen of fuck ups and no ones.
And I am in a state of perpetual decay.