Love Yourself So No One Has To

Today there's a dancing troupe but they might as well be a strip show, but the girls are all dressed up as male superheros and the guys are all dressed as the Beatles, and then they're not dressed and then I'm imagining you undressed and part of me is turned on and the other part is running to the bathroom, and, oh yes, I am puking on a statue of Our Lady of Rock and Panties, and I blame John Lennon for all of this because he looks much more like you than the singer and he's singing the song that you hummed right after I gave you my re-virginity.
My world is one run on sentence after another. Hemingway would hate me.
It doesn't even occur to me until later that the red in my puke is more likely blood than cherry, but at the time I'm so sloppy drunk and failing my job that it doesn't even matter. I should be in backstage management right now but I can't even find my fucking lanyard that proclaims me Queen of the DragQueens. My throat burns like I puked acid instead of martinis and someone's pulling me and calling me sweety, and it sounds remarkably female, but my brain still makes the assumption that it's you, and I call your name and the person says no, and then later on I wake up in Papi's Lounge and my stomach hurts and I don't know why, until I remember John Lennon and I remember you and I remember my un-re-virginization, and I'm puking again.