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He’s so smooth. Mr. Butter. He’s so nice at what he does. Effortless. A once in a generation species. Watch him walk! He glides! He gets it! All smooth and jazzy cat rat pack type sitting in a smoky back booth velvet ropes and here it’s class… calm… aristocratic with a fragile reminder of Big Tobacco’s failings leaving our lungs smokeless but our Hearts Open.
Theres another type of spot now, real unhappenin’ LED lights and music loud enough to flood an empty mind and full of promotors and too many tattoos and the girls are commodities that have sucked dick for a backstage pass and I can’t judge - they’re using what they’re momma gave them and above all else: have you ever laid eyes on an Ant, a cockroach, and really gave much care to judging it’s being? The other gender is there too. The worst of Them. Half bred guidos with majors in Event Planning, Business Management, and the two love each other in a symphony of mediocracy that sounds much like Bassnectar syringed with meth. The two lock ketamine eyes. In that moment they’ve both forgotten they’re Nobody in the Big Game because Here, together, under the pulses of the DJ board they don’t care to think about anything except pleasure. I’ve seen the eyes of wasted potential. I’ve wept.
God. To be 20 again. Said nobody except —
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