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Oh, martini, you are clouding my thoughts. At first, I welcomed the dulling of my senses, the easing of lost love’s sting. But, sweet intoxicant, you are quickly leaving me ill-equipped to defend myself from further emotional torment by those devils/angels we call women.

Was that your plan, martini? To muddy my senses, allowing this red haired goddess to cunningly seat herself at my lonely table before I could sturdy my still rebuilding heart?

And what of you, pretzel bowl? Your never ending supply of sodium makes me crave more of the scheming libation as this lovely creature waits to devour my soul. Your involvement in this conspiracy surprises me, simple snack dish.

Bar stool, you disappoint me most. All I require is your poorly crafted body to splinter the moment her perfect frame should come to rest on your cheap, vinyl seat. But, alas, she remains upright, trapping me in her haunting, seductive gaze. This night, I have learned that maple is truly, the most traitorous of lumbers.

Dress slit, I know you to be an agent for her cause, but surely you must acknowledge you’re not playing fair. You seem endless and cruel as her slender, ivory legs reveal themselves from under her soft, green evening wear. Oh, simple rift, as you guide my eyes further upward, I can practically hear you whisper, “This way to genitals, Alan.”

And fuck you, moon. Your soft, blue light beckoning us to the city streets, creating deep, wonderous shadows and making the entrance to her split level condo appear as though it were a cave of soft, erotic dreams.

Soft midnight breeze, surely you are a sack of dicks as you race across her small balcony, bringing her red, flowing locks to life while she further erodes my judgment with a Solo Cup of Southern Comfort.

I beg you stay on her body, green dress, for I simply am not strong eno…You lousy shit!

Traitorous erection! Each throb a knife in my heart!

I beg you, perfect breasts! Come no closer! While the great goddess Nippalia hath sculpted you to perfection, I simply cannot……Eh, fuck it.

Oh, semen. Your arrival, as always, comes with much haste. 

Warren Arnold is a silly, silly man currently living in Chicago, as well as a contributing writer to the online trivia games You Don’t Know Jack and Lie Swatter.
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