An Ode To My Left Hand

The weather in New Jersey is a fickle bitch, which reminds me of my love life.

Afflicted with some sort of terminal bronchitis for the last week, an array of various causes were proposed by those who know my habit and habitat. Perhaps it was the massive amounts of blended Peruvian medicine powders I inhaled in the Nevada desert not too long ago. Or the hacking illness passed back and forth between my bartender and myself, not unlike that horrible pestilence of penicillin-resistant gonorrhea last spring when we inadvertently infected all the bar-whores with pus death. Myself, I blame the inclement climate of this desolate place, the only state in the Union where you can leave the house wearing Bermuda shorts and sunscreen, and walk home shivering in a spring blizzard.

No wonder all the people here are crazy.

And speaking of crazy, let’s get back to that love life I mentioned. Though many decades have passed since Sigmund Freud presented his psychological treatise, certain phrases have weathered well over time. Such as the fact that some unfortunate fellows are stuck in the Genital or Anal phase, doomed to spend long late night hours trying to fuck themselves. Other lucky ladies are still struggling in the Oral phase, sucking strange cocks under the neon lights the way quitters bum cigarettes. Oh, don’t mind me, I only do this when I drink. I haven’t had a dick in my mouth for nearly two weeks now. Quite alright, I say. Gladly, I feed their addiction, as they feed mine. But perhaps Freud’s most significant contribution to Head Medicine was the notion that all people short and tall are subconsciously attracted sexually to their parents, and actually seek out individuals with similar traits in pursuit of love.

Now it gets interesting.

Because while I’ve probed the depths of a few foreign fish holes in my time, the truly troubling relationships are those I’ve attempted to maintain longer than five minutes. As you good people know, I would never intend to disrespect any person or elected government official with my prose, as this is a very public place where many Sick Fucks spend quality leisure time. Therefore, should I say something off color like My ex-girfriend is a diseased siren cum dumpster with no logic or gag reflex, all I’m really trying to do is illustrate her shortcomings in the game of intimacy and compromise. However, never failing in hypocritical judgment of my adult life, nearly every female figure I’ve dated has received the red flag for one reason or another. In fact, I can’t think of a single girl in my life who wasn’t instantly despised and condemned to die for my mere acquaintance. And with just cause. Between the drunken she-devils, bipolar bitches, and cock-sucking cunts, I’ve scarcely had time to stand and zip my pants before tripping over another six-month travesty of arguments and broken dishes. In fact, my addictive involvement with head cases is so rampant; I can’t even stand next to a sane, grounded woman without going completely flaccid.

The first step to recovery is admitting the problem.

So I’ve turned my back on the bright lights of Vegas callgirls and shadows of New Orleans stripjoints, walking past the single mothers and codependent college girls on the way home to my most faithful lover. Because my true love doesn’t mind if I wake her in the wee hours with a bit of beer buzz. She doesn’t bitch about the dishes in the sink or my unrestrained profanity in public places. Never a word is spoken to the contrary of my wishes, as she exhibits only obedience without question. No questions about where I’ve been or where I’m going, always willing to perform that simple service in any toilet stall or crowded highway. In these selfish days of FCC regulation and the 30 second mpeg, I am hard pressed to find a more economical and timely satisfaction than that which the Good Lord placed at the end of my left arm.

And if any of you fuckers can figure out the psychological semblance between my hand and my dear mother, you be sure to drop me a line.