Good Evening Miss Monroe

She's throwing daggers in my general direction, so I cough up the rest of my dignity, and call it a night.

The air is heavy and dry, begging for a good rain.

I can't seem to walk quite right.

A grown up Weeble, hoping for a midnight mugging.


A dirty vomit soaked hand reaches out from the dark alley, pleading for a puff of the cigarette I just lit.

I stop for a second and ask him "why?"

He seems taken aback and starts to stammer.

I take a long drag, blow the smoke in his face and stomp it out in front of him.

He spits in my direction, but I manage to side step it.

A group of millennial's scowl at my behavior and curse me as they pass, but I can't get myself to give a fuck.

I'd be more compassionate if that lifeless bag of shit was selling greasy hamburgers in that alley. Hell, I'd even take a rat burger, if he was pushing them, just to occupy the time during this walk of no shame.

A tall, wispy, butter face, attempts to cross the street up ahead while texting.

I close my eyes and pray for a police chase to round the corner, but no such luck.

She makes it, without even a honk from oncoming traffic.

Privileged fuck. 

I hear the train below as hot garbage is blown through the grates.

I take pleasure in the thought of some poor white trash visiting the city, with the hope to relive that classic scene from The Seven Year Itch. 

Betty beer can, dolled up, and taking position on the vents, only to be blasted by piss and shit.

The music at Johnnie's is ad nauseam.

Even the bum three blocks away can probably hear it.

The patio is filled with scene-sters, nursing their hand rolled cigarettes and vape pens. There's a tinge of skunk weed in the air, as a couple laughs hysterically and attempt to sign along to Blondie's One Way Or Another.

A group of fags profile me, as I pass jukebox hell.

At least one of them wants to fuck me.

Blondie finishes and Journey provides the exit music.

The entire bar howls "just a small town girl!" just in time for me to step into oncoming traffic.

I try my best to block it out, but sure enough, three blocks away, I can still hear the screaming.

"Don't stop! Be-liev-in'! Hold on to that feel-eh-ye-yah-an."

Home.

I collapse onto the front steps of my overpriced brown stone and light another cigarette.

Three puffs in, I hear a tap at the window from the super. She points to the cigarette and shakes her finger. 

I singe the end with my fingers and slide it into my shirt pocket.

I politely flip her off.

She mouths "asshole" and pulls her curtains shut.

A block away I hear a group of party pigs approaching. They hoot and holler, while carrying on raspy conversation at full volume.

It's not long until I see their plastic tiara's, and booze soaked sashes, that I realize I've entered the ninth circle of hell.

Their toilet papered leader walks barefoot and sips neon green poison from a brandy glass. She flaunts her glass to the demon pack who praises her for stealing it from the bar.

Bride of Frankenstein decides to do her best Girls Gone Wild and streaks across the street, drink in hand.

Just when I've given up hope, she face plants in the street and the glass shatters.

I stand in shock as the sisterhood rushes to her aid.

They look to me for help, but all I can do is rise and start a slow clap.

"What the fuck!"

"You fucking prick!"

Just some of the insults hurdled my way.

As they peel their bloody bride off the street, I manage to regurgitate the only thought in my head.

"Don't Stop Believin" I tell them and retire for the night.