She said to me mid-conversation:
"Can you write me something as if you were actually in love with me?"
I was silent for a bit in my reply.
Then, at last, I said:
"Sure, just give me a second."
As I quickly hung up on her before she could even reply goodnight.
Poured a drink en route to oblivion and turned off my phone for the next several days.
And as I powered it back on, it lit up one text at a time.
Till at last, I read the inevitable.
"Hey, asshole! Where the fuck have you been?
And what about that poem I asked you to write for me?"
"Sweetheart, that's the thing. You seem to have confused your genres.
For I write poetry, not children's fairy tales, so I guess you’re shit out of luck.
By the way, are we still on for tonight?"
She yelled and screamed out a few mixed obscenities before her sudden departure.
When it comes to drinks and my truths.
I seldom, if ever, forget to include the ice.
John Patrick Robbins, currently resides in Oslo Norway where he is completing his residency at the Ragnar Lothbrok water park.
He also is a currently working on a cure for open mic poetry.
He recently published his 2000th poetry collection which is a hit.
Selling five copies which he purchased under his real name Satan.
He is currently building a doomsday vault where he will help preserve great amounts of the finest nacho cheese known to man.
His publications include.
The Yellow Pages, The Highschool Year Book, A Bathroom Wall In Hooters, The Dollywood Review, Weird Tales, Field & Stream, He is also a multiple Grammy award winning artist for his album no one has ever heard.
He is not a real person he is merely part of the Matrix.
He also can teleport and raided your fridge last night and stole all your oodles of noodles.
And the greatest bio writer on earth.... and Valhalla
Skál
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