Wednesday, December 11, 2002
I'm listening to Barry Manilow again, this can't be good. His greatest hit, "Mandy," tends to only make appearances at pity parties and sob sessions where I imagine the love of my life down on his knees belting out the words I know so well. It's pathetic, really. I should complete the picture by being hugging-the-toilet drunk, but I haven't the money to fund such a binge. Wonderful visions of white dresses and chubby pink babies have been replaced, rather suddenly, by very gray and depressing premonitions of a lifetime filled with broken hearts and lots of cats. I don't know why I thought he would be any different from the others. Experience tells me thinking so only leads to heartache and complete disappointment. I'm suddenly very glad there is no ten-run rule in the game of love, I would have had to forfeit a long time ago.
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