I missed our date on Saturday. I don't know what happened. I thought you were going to come over. I probably fucked up and went to The Golden Hind.
But I ain't getting no cell phone. I'm telling you that for the last time. Cell phones give me the creeps, just like small dogs do. A grown man has no business with them. You look like pussy, fidgeting with the fucking thing every other minute. Before you know it, you're riding around in a plaid shirt on a bicycle with a basket wishing you were in Portland and there's no going back after that.
A cell phone? No thanks, baby. I know you think I need one but it's you who needs me to have one. Sorry but checking in is checking up in my book. I won't have it. These days, people can't help but impose. Every time I hear somebody on the phone, usually while I'm trying to enjoy my lunch or a drink, they're either trying to pin someone down or shake off a tail. How is that living? The answer is it isn't.
You've got my digits. And I have my phone. It's sitting on the sawed-off Greek column, right next to my smoking chair, the one you always say should be taken out back and burned or left to kill rats with the odour.
Call me. If I'm not home, I'll get back to you. I promise because I like your legs and you've got a good heart. And it's hard to find a chick these days who isn't covered in tattoos and hates anal sex. You're a keeper. I'll try to pick up my game. I'm fucking old, what can I tell you.
8 September 2014