st patrick's day is gay

my mom came in to my room at about ten and said that she heard music down the street at some irish bar and wanted to go. so i went. it was so gay. it was terrible. it was the middle age bro bar dream. it was totally beyond me. i stood there, drunk, on the sidelines, watching my mom dance with strangers to a black sabbath cover band and talked to a guy from north carolina or something and gave him my number and he stayed by me all night, he didnt know what to do i didnt know what to do my mom was dancing. what was i supposed to tell him? i didnt know what to do. i could barely hear. i could barely see. i had no glasses on. i told him i painted because my told him i was an artist and too lofty for this parking lot in so many words. she disappeared. he stayed. he got my house number. i was beyond cell phones. i told him to get out of murietta. i told him it wasnt better. i told him it would only be the worst thing he ever did. i told him my name. i had no intention of ever talking to him again. but i was drunk so he has my number. he has my number. i told him how terrible things are. i dont think her heard me. my mom didnt hear me when i told her in our kitchen in front of my enemy. michael is lost, i am distant and not forthcoming with my wisdom that is not