I wanted to shave. But the woman who will truly love me would not care if I shaved or not. So I grew a beard as long as the Taliban’s.
I wanted to comb my hair. But the woman who will truly love me would not care if I combed my hair or not. So I never looked in the mirror again.
I wanted to treat my pimples. But the woman who will truly love me would not care if I were the biggest pizza face in the crowd. So I let the nasty green buggers spread down to my neck.
I was planning on getting fit. You know, jogging, gym and veggies? But I realized the woman who will truly love me wouldn’t care about my weight. So I scratched out “healthy living” from my vocabulary.
I was meaning to read this novel my friends recommended. But then again the woman who will truly love me wouldn’t give a damn about what I read. So I stuck with comicbooks and started mocking all the idiots reading that stupid novel. Sad, unloved hipsters.
I was looking to visit some old friends. But the woman who will truly love me may not be friends with my friends. So why bother? Let those bridges burn, I told myself.
I was wondering whether it’s time for a wardrobe switch for something more elegant, professional–something girls would find dashing. But then I remembered I don’t need other girls or their taste in fashion. The woman who will truly love me would like me whatever I put on. So I just wore the same 3 sets of jeans and shirts every week ’til they smelled of rotten cheese and onions.
I wanted to save. But the woman who will truly love me wouldn’t do so for my money. So I spent every penny before the next payday and fell into debt with my boss.
I used to envy guys with cars. But the woman who will truly love me would gladly walk with me to the train or bus station every day even if we both end up sweaty and stinky. So screw cars.
I used to use deodorant.
I used to dream about being a lawyer. But why go through all that trouble if the woman who will truly love me wouldn’t give a rat’s ass if i were a bum? So to hell with lawyers.
I used to help in the house. Not anymore.
I used to care about what my colleagues would say about my work. Sorry, they’re clearly not the woman who will truly love me, so they can go ahead and talk behind my back. While they’re at it, they can kiss my hairy crack.
Used to play the guitar even if I wasn’t good at it. The woman who will truly love me wouldn’t force me to be musically pleasing in any way, though. So I ditched the guitar and now I couldn’t play you the G chord even if you put a gun to my head.
Used to write poems. Became virtually illiterate.
Used to sketch. Stick figures.
Eat on time. Ulcer.
Come to work early. Suspended. Fired.
Brush my teeth. Cavities.
Let old women take my seat in the train.
Tickle other people’s babies as if I really like them.
Well, the woman who will truly love me would accept me as I am. So I became me and fell down the rabbit hole.
Drowned myself in alcohol and dove into first-hand, second-hand, third-hand, fourth-hand smoke. Slept with every skank in search for a slob for the night. Feasted in fried chicken forever without an end in sight. Checked out some nifty booze and got high as fuck. As Spock. And cracked. Door’s locked. At home. No Luck. Collapsed onto the roadside slobbering drunk.
But the woman who will truly love me would always call me back. Whatever I do. She’d welcome me back to her arms.
She’d tell me it’s all right to be imperfect. Nobody’s perfect.
And she’d hold my hand and tell me I’m enough. And then she’d hug me. Kiss me. Sing to me.
So I got lung cancer.
Began to wheeze and sneeze everyday ’til I freaked out everybody in the new office. The woman who will truly love me would’ve understood.
Started spitting out huge blobs of toxic green sputum all over the place. The woman who will truly love me would’ve given me comfort.
Coughed my blood out ’til my gums were soaked in red. The woman who will truly love me would’ve puckered up and sucked my big, fat lips dry.
Ribs quickly rose like a mummy decomposed. Skin dried up pretty fast. Eyes sunk like somebody’s sucking them out the other side of my huge skull. The woman I’m talking about would’ve shagged me still. She’d shag me hard while I’m coughing up ooze in her face. Oh, she’d shag and I’d cough, shag and cough, shag and cough, and then we’d do it all over again.
Of course ’til my boner gave way.
But something tells me she’d still try to stroke it. She’d love me that much, you know?
And then in my final days, I’d write my will. Wouldn’t be able to give my mom anything–not a single dime. She’ll curse me to hell but the other woman won’t.
I won’t have anything for anybody.
Except my undying love for the only woman who will truly love me back all the years of my short life.
Then I’d die.
Unfortunately, I won’t have money for a good burial, too.
I’ll tell my dad to throw my disheveled bag of bones in a river like the way he did it with our dead pet dogs and cats.
The woman who will truly love me would cry the only tears I long for, anyway.
She’d get down on her knees and cry. She won’t be able to help herself.