ARE YOU AN ARTIST

This bottle is becoming my best friend again. This is where it starts and ends as I close my eyes and lose my mind. People through the years have always asked me the same annoying question: What type of artist are you? As they go down a long list while I hold a clenched fist, trying not to hit them in the face

They ask, Kind Sir, do not make us guess. Are you a painter, a writer, a rockstar, a poet? I reply Fruit, mineral, or vegetable. Which are you? They never think that joke is funny, and they say, Sir, seriously, we ask because you have the moves and looks of a mysterious person, kind of some thief. Once again, I say I always wanted to be a pirate.

The housewives ask how you are in bed. We are always wanting to f*ck  an intellectual, a painter, a writer, a rockstar, or a poet. I reply I always wanted to f*ck a mother that was not my own, so leave me the keys to your cars and mansion, and I will write you a poem. Just let me know when your husband is not home.

They say Paint us a picture, let us be your masterpiece, sing us a song, and we will give you your next hit. Write a story, make us fall in love, and recite a poem because your words make us wet.

Well, yes, I am an artist. I am always broke and hungry. Feed me, and you're just a lonely housewife, horny and wanting to have mad hot, sweaty sex, an intellectual who can make you feel and think.