Broken.

I wish it was my leg.
A pompous doctor would wrap my broken leg in plaster, coat it in a layer of hope and sympathy.

But you can't wrap an organ in gauze or band-aids, not that I know of anyway.
I'm sure some fuck head will comment on this bad boy and announce publically that they had their liver wrapped in a sheath of plastic or something absurd.

I hate that you broke my heart.
I hate that you never read this.
I hate that I wont be sitting amongst balloons in your spongebob clad room for your eighteenth birthday.
I hate that I wasn't beautiful enough or funny enough for you.

But I love that you brought me back to life Polly.
You sat with me in the rain and told me, mid cigarette, that I was going to be ok.
And I will be.

No bull

It took me longer to think of a title for this post for two reasons.
1. The last time I posted, scrunchies were fashionable and Ronald Reagan was twiddling his thumbs in the White House. Perhaps not? It feels like it's been a long time.
2. Bull's get rings put through their noses so ignorant bastards can drag them along and make them charge at red sheets of cotton, sometimes a cotton/polyester combination.
I just got a nose ring. So the secret behind the title to this belated post is that no, I am no Bull.

I had Polly standing at the foot of what seemed like my coffin but was actually a bed for waxing and piercings. As the over-pierced woman wiped an alcohol swap on my nose I joked, 'smells like a Saturday night'. At the time I thought I was being ultra suave.
I shut my eyes, so did Polly. I hoped the piercer had hers open.
And in a matter of relatively painful moments it was all over. I walked up to the cash register and paid a women fifty four dollars to puncture my nose and fill the orifice with a 8mm sleeper ring.
With shaky hands I text messaged my dad, informing him of my latest rebellion. He replied 'You're out of the will!'
My Grandpa told me I looked hip.