Color Me Moody.

Thursdays are Pint Nights.
You get to keep the glass, and that's what makes them cool.

Kim always gets me up shit creek, and I always tell her.

Lots of people cry at Pint Nights.
Somebody old asked how McLevy's is.
Said your mother is the love of my life,
...and that was rather unprecedented.

But I won't kill a boner on purpose, so I said she's tip-top.
A nod and a raised glass.

But then Kim came sailing, and I laid my head on the bar.

"...Her mom locked herself in a bedroom for three days.
No food, or pee, or shit.
Her liver was huge, and she was black and blue,
so she swallowed a million anti-depressants.
And chugged a fifth of vodka.
Screaming, she died in puke.
I was there, and it was terrible."

"...Her dad got esophageal cancer,
even though he was a runner.
Four months later, poof.
dead, gone.
ciao, bello.
I was there, and it was terrible."

"...Zack's bisexual.
Norah's into witchcraft.
Says she's a Buddhist until April.
I'm still here, and it's really still terrible."

But Kim didn't say that we are kids,
bred to understand each other.
Because we were raised by parents,
who wanted kids who talked to one another.

My dad used to send Zack and I notes, in Chicago.
Except they were really just one note, ripped in two.
One half to him, the other to me.
Meeting was compulsory,
to read the whole thing.
And we would, over coffee, or spaghetti, or milkshakes.