Midnight in Paris

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Anthony Mastroianni

Midnight in Paris



My leg hurts. My balls ache. My head feels ten times heavier than it should. I feel like a gaping asshole and, well, she, she’s perfect.
  You know that girl who’s the perfect height with or without heels on? Her wrong opinions are right. She hasn’t seen Everybody Says I Love You because she doesn’t like musicals. Even her ugly fucking haircut looks great. She doesn’t even like Midnight in Paris, but all she’s doing is midnight in Paris-ing your ass and you’re getting further and further lost in this paradox called Annamari’.
  She’s that girl you don’t address directly so it seems like you are talking to everyone, but you’re only responding to the shit she says. She’s in your head and in that head you are the only two people at the table even though your girl is on your arm and has been the whole night. You’re surrounded by friends and acquaintances, but they aren’t there there. They’re background noise. “Dream Weaver” is playing. She’s that . . .
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