That Guy

Truth is I’m not that guy. I’m not that guy in the third row the geek or that guy over there who obviously over beats his meat. Although I do love to I mean like to that’s just not me. Me in the sense that I’m something worse, a bird stealing a purse, something cursed, something unheard of. That relationship between owner and renter the demand for rent, like a beggar’s appetite for cent, I resent that I use scents to betray girls.  Look at you all pathetically trying to piece together these words I speak, thoughts that seep out of my head and into yours. Consider me a piñata if that’s the case a bunch of kids about to intake my delicious secrets. Relax your nuts guys, what im about to tell you is nothing big just something sig-nificantly true. All my life I’ve been taunted by the words haunted by the words shone, bird watcher, Mac daddy, player and pimp, oh and my personal favorite whore without the limp. It’s gotten so bad that instead of Omar they call me HOMAR. Sad part about it is I don’t mind it, I fucking love it. I fucking embrace it. Like a father embraces his child with open arms, warm charms and flesh after his first performance. The names help in the overall scheme and blueprint I use. I’ve used the same blueprint for years, nothing has changed except my age and her name but that wouldn’t explain why my thumbs are starting to bruise from something intangible. Those scents I spoke of earlier are my bait when it comes to luring girls. My ammunition when it comes to unintentionally tilting  worlds, as it unwhirls you realize these scents are right in front of your eyes. You’ve been blind. They come in simple smiles. Hi’s and byes.  Hugs and shrugs, tugs of her hair and mind and once I’ve got your mind I’m satisfied. Satisfied like a baby whose just finish sucking breast milk from the breast of his breast filled mom. Giggity.  There you go again trying to one by one dissect each of my lines, with your scalpel and scissors cut into the side of my mind that’s guarded with beware signs and 3 headed dragons spitting flames of truth. Truth…… truth is I am that fucking guy. that Mac daddy, player and pimp hoe without the limp  A.K.A HOMAR guy however all the reasons behind it are inverse, lets reverse your train of thoughts in a opposing direction. The big bang, no shame so here goes. Truth is I unknowingly have complete knowledge of exactly what I do, im not trying to confuse you or am i.  Truth is I abuse girls as though their steroids. I inject every bit of them into me. No not that they enhance my muscle but that they enhance my side of this struggle fight with that fight against abandonment. Loneliness if you will. Their minds are my field of extractment. Women’s minds are my confidence booster I use to get through the day like a rooster I feed off of hay, Hey’s that you give me in the halls or during class assuring me that your into me. It’s those smiles that give me reassurance that I’m in control and dictate how this will end and all be told. Those random hookups hook up into my confidence jar building it up and letting me know that I’m the man. The man everyone likes, That man I strive to be.. I want to be the reciprocal image of my father who was never here but there with the druggies Leaving my mother and I alone. playing this game is how avoid being alone. I don’t want to feel alone again.