patrick, always on my mind

andy pink, marion, north dakota —

who is quite as good as the beach boys? — the pet shop boys!

i really wanted to get back together with patrick, the farm boy from a starbucks in central kansas, but it seems as if our break-up was messy, or ill-timed, or perhaps ill-conceived, or destined — in sum: harsh, and without adequate preparation — that i thought i would run down the convo i had with him earlier this morning. he called me — a total psychological mess — from the bathtub, drowning in his own blood and semen, only to be saved — momentarily, mind you — by the brown face girl's homemade tourniquet —

"michael, is that you?"

i didn't want to let on that i was available so early in the morning on a saturday. usually, i'm out with the boys till late on friday nights — or at least at a 24 burger king — so i put on the voice of my aunt portia, the farm girl from western mass —

"patrick, mike's asleep and i'm prepping the cock for crow time at daybreak. can i transfer you to customer service?"

"it's about the night that i went back — "

"back? back where?"

"back to the future."

it was that kind of sad. real sad. unattractive sad. the kind of sad you only find in the movies, because the heartbreak has to be written by professionals rather than by the salty waters of blood and semen imprinted into a tourniquet.

the nostalgia for previous relationships — no matter how homosexual and homicidal — can be fierce and, in a way, this nostalgia can be its own story, with a beginning, middle, and end — and then the final end. patrick was destined to do himself in — to wrap himself in the threads of a necklace that he purloined from drops of his own semen — the semen — if you will: cum — the cum was soaking, and fiery hot, and his loins, laid bare, were bare, from a lifetime of swim team meets and his father's carving of his own — paternal — initials into the son's thighs (quads) — this bare'd, cum'd, drench'd, blood'd boy'd — we all yearned for him, hoped for the dear, but he was buried, gone, collapsed in his own blood and semen, and wishing one final word to his ex-boyfriend, "mike," as he was affectionately known:

"i love you, mike."

"i love you, too," said linda, the customer service representative.

it was only later that linda was able to recount, without tears: "to go back to the future in one's own death — it's like he was born anew at the last choke on his own sperm. do you think we can make a dance track out of this story?"

all of the lawyers teared up, welled up, and said, in unison: "the deposition is over."

wish i could have been there,

andy pink

reporting from where? — by the window outside of the starbucks 1304 commonwealth avenue, boston, ma 02134 — allston

there's an upside to this tale: he didn't take brown faced girl with him — not a pudgy face, just "full."

a.pink