My Dingy Basement

I’m starting to get used to my dingy little basement.  I have been banished here for 3 months now by Mrs. Dragone, or shall I say the ex-Mrs. Dragone.  That’s right, its unofficially official.  The ex-Mrs. Dragone may have tried to slay me with her sharp sword made of molten silver saturated with garlic powder (in case I am also a vampire, which I am), but she did not succeed.  She only made my wings soar higher.  Harder.  Better.  Faster.  Stronger.  And a single man I am once again.

I shall embrace the hollow pit of a feeling in my stomach by spending the day tomorrow racing roller coasters with my hands held up in the air.  I shall fantasize about having my wrists tightly secured to Olympian gymnastic metal rings, held high in the air, while beautiful women tickle my armpits.  I shall scream like a little girl.  No, even worse, like a little boy.

I have fallen in love with the demonic posters that adorn the walls of my new dingy bedroom.  Held up by masking tape, these collector’s items came free with the various Xbox games that my teenage son spent my money on.  My teenage son who is no longer the master of this dingy little basement, for he has moved on to bigger and better basements in his mother’s house where she lets him drink and smoke pot to his lungs’ content.  These demons surrounding me do in fact belong to me.

Now don’t you worry about me, dear readers.  I have endured far worse at the hands of psychotic exes.  My party has just begun.



DRAGONE critiques news, entertainment, sports, fashion, and love. He also has ADD, but that is irrelevant.
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