Effing Rolling Stones


It is difficult to break up with anger. He keeps coming back for one last

tryst. It’s like fucking Rolling Stones, or so I imagine. There was a reason I

got into anger, though. He served a purpose. Whenever we were together I

dreamed of what could have been. Not outrageous dreams of immortality

and limitlessness, but reasonable ones of not always having to be a

grown-up. Anger was never late to point out what I was missing, and he

could go all night. It was exhausting. Unlike fucking Rolling Stones, or so I

imagine. I got tired of anger and stopped answering his calls. For weeks

I’ve been trying to hook up with acceptance. I hear she is good. Engaged, so

there is no stepping out, no looking back. She demands full commitment

and will take on no less. I am ready for that. If I am going to spend this

kind of energy, I want more than rage and an STD. I want the real deal,

something to remember. Like fucking Rolling Stones, or so I imagine.

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