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Fatboy or Sweet and Low Self-Esteem

No man wants you.
No man wants to have sex with
a fat ass wussyboy like you, Shane.
I mean, look at you.
Take a good long look at yourself
in the mirror. Mirrors tell no lies
like all those boys who told you
you're great. Or friends who would
describe you as being a nice person
and would say that you're going
to make whomever you meet really happy.
More like make them throw up with disgust.
Remember all those times you were
putting all those ads in the paper?
VOICE PERSONALS I think they were called.
You would take a piece of yellow legal
paper and draft out how you wanted your ad
to read. Gay black male, 22, 24 or 27, whatever
age you were going through at the time, seeks
non-smoking, non-drinking gay, multicultural
male 20 to 35 who is artistic, intelligent,
ambitious and loves poetry for dating. Multicultural?
What the fuck is that? And not everyone loves or even
writes poetry.  Sometimes in ads,
you would do something that was
so corny like say you were seeking someone
for good times. We all know that means you're not
looking for Prince Charming or even a guy that looked
halfway like something. It meant you were horny and wanted
to fuck. You were looking for fuckbuddies at times
'cause you were getting tired of giving blowjobs
in public toilets and wanted to exchange them for
an actual one-bedroom apartment with a built in bedroom.

Then there was those ads where you would want
someone that was "financially stable." Financially
stable was what you called it. So then you wanted
a rich fuckbuddy because you got tired of coming
home to your parents who you still live with,
with a three piece chicken combo in your hand
instead of memories in your head about how great
the food was at some new Mexican restaurant. Shit man,
you are so pathetic. Desperate for real professional
dick til you don't know which end is up. You're so fucked
up. I don't think you even know what love is.
You think love is Meg Ryan and Tom Hanks meeting
at the top of the Empire State Building. You want life
to be a fucking fairytale with happy endings where
cute little bunnies and butterflies flutter around
your big fat ass.

Why do you set your hopes so high that after a while, they're too high for even you to reach?
I'm so sick and tired of you falling for straight boys.
I get amnesia from you banging your head against that brick wall.
First there was Ben: the brunette that drove that shitty car.
The one you stalked everyday after your art class.
You'd run out to the parking lot, leave crazy fucking
notes on the windshield and stalk him at Parkway 5, that theatre you used to work at.
You got off more on the fact that he had no idea who you were
then what you wanted from him.
When he graduated, your little soap opera was canceled.
I was glad too, 'cause for a while, I thought you was goin
get caught and we would've both been in some serious shit.
Then there was Jack and Nick. The two dopes that you used to work with at the theatre.
You didn't love them.
You just had crushes on em and saw em both as big dicks with arms and legs.
Jack was a real asshole.
You think just because the guy kissed you during a game
of TRUTH or DARE, he's got like, feelings for you?
He fixed you though by staying out of sight and out of your way.
And as for the letters, the cards and gifts,
I wanted to cut your hand off each time the thoughts
of greeting cards entered your head.

Nick was a complete troll, a fucking Nome that only cared about numero uno.
This is the guy that friggin' stood you up at the movies.
You were suppose to go see that movie... what was it... Losing Isaiah.
That's it. You waited and waited in the lobby and he never showed.
Good thing you didn't buy popcorn and hotdogs for two.
You called him the next day and what did he tell you?
He had to get the brakes on his Camero fixed.
Now you and I both know, he had just bought that car
and there wasn't a damn thing wrong with his brakes.
You were the dumbass left with egg on your face.
More like an entire omlet.
But before all these complete losers there was Thad.
He was so cool to you and you had to go take advantage
of that niceness by telling him you liked him more than friends
could ever like one another.
And this, after he told you he had no problem with you being gay,
and that he would be your friend as long as you didn't try none of that gay shit on him.
But no, not you, you had to fuck it all up
with your letters packed with gayboy confessions.
I wanted to cut out your tongue for that stupid shit.
I had to sit through journal entry after journal entry listening
to you about how cute Joe is and that he has a cute bubble-butt.
And how understanding and patient Tony was and if he weren't married,
you'd ask him out.
Like he would go out with somebody with flat feet and oily skin.
It got so bad, you settled for Collin,
Collin the guy who was bipolar and called you a nigger on your day off.
Jack was the one who called and told you about it.
I could not believe you sucked the cock of the same guy who called you a nigger.
You sick fuck!! Didn't you get it, didn't you catch the drift
that it was our dick going into his ass, that it was our cock fucking his face?
Your penis is just as much mine as it is yours.
You stooped to an all-time low with him.
Sneaking in the storage room for a quickie.
Fucking and fornicating between the trail mix and yogurt covered pretzels.
Nasty fucker swallowing cum behind the register of Panhandle Pet Supply.
Then one day, you got your just deserves.
You called there on Sunday like you would always do and someone else answered the phone.
It wasn't his voice. Is Collin working today?" you asked.
"Collin doesn't work here anymore," the girl said in her fairest of voices.
That was so funny. I laughed and grinned and pointed the finger you could not see.
You kept calling his house, but he was never home.
In your relentless attempts to reach him at home, his father answered
and explained that he moved out and you asked,
"Is there a number where he can be reached,
I'm an old friend from the theatre?" you would plead.
You called and he gave you the sad news that he
was no longer working at the pet store and that his "girlfriend," who he had 
been dating on the side from you, had gotten him a job working for the state.
You were afraid he had gotten fired.
You're such a naive piece of shit you are.
But the thing that really made my whole day,
my whole goddamned year, was when he told you he didn't want to do that anymore,
When he said he didn't want to fool around, fuck.
He said not to call him, that he would call you.
For weeks you thought of Collin while jacking-off.
Fantasizing about the time he gave you head on a warehouse of cardboard boxes.
Everything changes you loser. Nothing stays the same.
Now to cope, you're writing poems about this guy.
I could feel the effects of your pain when you saw him coming out of the bookstore.
The nerve of him completely ignoring you as if you were some nasty scab far removed from his skin.
You're more like a hairy mole on the ass of life.
And I'm sick of having to endure this shit.
If I had my way, we'd go pick up chics instead of wasting time with dickless wonders like Collin.
For the longest time, I thought he was retarded.
You keep writing these poems about that Todd guy too.
I approve of him.
He's cool, but you know he's married and you still got your fingers crossed.
I agree you two would be great together if he was gay, but he's not.
Get over it you stupid shit.
After all we have gone through, after all you have put me through, after 
getting busted for pulling out your dick to a guy you knew was a cop, after 
getting counseling and community service, after getting tested in 95 for 
AIDS, you still have not learned a damn thing.
You're still doing nasty shit, you've gained weight, you're anemic,
you've got wax in your ears, your eyes
are gone and after 7 years of being in college, you just want to be loved?
What the fuck am I going to do with you? Can you tell me that?

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