Wednesday, April 18, 2012

all my friends are dead

The man's blazer ahead of me was of a cheap fabric and didn't fit well. It reminded me of something. I soon realized what that thing was it reminded me of: my father. He had nearly an identical blazer. It was a dark patterned blazer, something in between bronze and khaki. The jacket, in my memories, didn't fit my father well either. My memories of him in this particular blazer are from when he was dying of lung cancer, his body made smaller by both his cancer and his chemo treatment, him seeming smaller in all of his clothes. The shoes and pants this man were wearing also were things my father wore. This man had the same skin color as my father and was bald, much like my father during this time in his life. I occasionally see these apparitions around the city, men who remind me of my father. I watched him from behind as he walked down Broadway, losing the erotic enthusiasm I had been trying to muster to go see this man I often see uptown and who I was on my way to see when I encountered the ghost of my dad.

In the half block between seeing this apparition and this man's house who was going to pay me to suck my dick, I walked past a teenage girl smoking a cigarette. She was wearing a t-shirt that said, "All My Friends Are Dead." Underneath this phrase was a cartoon image of a stegosaurus.

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