dores de estômago em lisboa, bukowsky

The Great Slob

I was always a natural slob I liked to lay upon the bed in undershirt (stained, ofcourse) (and with cigarette holes) shoes off beerbottle in hand trying to shake off a difficult night, say with a woman still around walking the floor complaining about this and that, and I'd work up a belch and say, "HEY, YOU DON'T LIKE IT? THEN GET YOUR ASS OUT OF HERE!"
I really loved myself, I really loved my slob-self, and they seemed to also: always leaving but almost always coming back.

bukowsky