i enjoy your smoldering good looks and you enjoy my musky little cave i call my vagina.

I'm not sure if you are aware of this but in my heart I house a tiny hotel, much like my actual place that I keep somewhere on reality's super highway we call "the ville." I get a lot of tenants stopping through but none want to invest in the property they piss all over and call "theirs". If I were a moble home, my mileage would be maxed out and I would be tucked away and rotting on someone's property hidden out in the boondocks of Southern Indiana.
When I was 15 I sold my soul to the devil like many great blues carriers of the past. I just wanted someone to look twice. I am an ill-bread rape victim hiding in what could be best called "a fixer upper". I ain't no prize to behold but I won't let that stop me from tricking you into believing otherwise.
I'm all alone damn it, and a failure at the only thing that made me happy. Maybe I should attempt to refresh my contract and request to change the premises.
I've been staring at a shiny poster of Marilyn Monroe all night wondering if that is in fact my destiny. If only I were so lucky… Still only a baby and already damaged goods.
I used to believe in Karma but have been re-evaluating this theory for a few years now. At this point the idea of Karma is much like buying real estate up in heaven… or even hell.
I've left everyone in this world that has truly loved me, or maybe I am just gullible to think they actually could. I mean, how can you love a withered down cold stone?
The moral of this story is: I'm just a convenient little stop on the way back to the mother ship. Enjoy the tire tracks all up and down my back… yard. Come on, I live in Indiana.
Vanity is ever present and takes on several forms. Like the Devil himself. And this I know…
For the Bible tells me so.
Thanks for stopping by, and please don't forget your shit infested shoes on the front porch.