Pulp

what are you waiting for, the last rose of summer?

Hell was what you made it.

It wasn’t my day. My week. My month. My year. My life. God damn it.

I got lost somehow, began staring up her legs. I was always a leg man. It was the first thing I saw when I was born. But then I was trying to get out. Ever since I have been working in the other direction and with pretty lousy luck.

?” I asked.
“Never mind. I want Celine.

A warm zero. Here I was 55 years old and I didn’t have a pot to catch rain in. My father had warned me that I would end up diddling myself on some stranger’s back porch in Arkansas. And I still had time to make it.

Then she got up and walked out of there. I never saw an ass like that in my life. Beyond concept. Beyond everything. Don’t bother me now. I want to think about it.

“Maybe you met all the wrong kinds of women?”
“Maybe I’m attached to that.”

Punk,” he said, “your 24 hours are up. You still diddling with your weenie or you made your mind up?”
“I’m still diddling with my weenie.”

I wasn’t going anywhere and neither was the rest of the world. We were all just hanging around waiting to die and meanwhile doing little things to fill the space. Some of us weren’t even doing little things. We were vegetables. I was one of those. I don’t know what kind of vegetable I was. I felt like a turnip. I lit a cigar, inhaled, and pretended that I knew what the hell.