I knew something was up and doomed to go avry between myself and Van Gogh's Starry Night painting a long time ago. I knew something was profoundly wrong between us, and that we could never really be happy together. I knew, but I chose to ignore it, hoping our problems would go away.
You see, a couple of years ago I caught it in the arms of a girl I vehemantly dislike, this hissy white-trash tart who likes to feign bohemian. One day I caught her *doing* Starry Night....as a project for our art class, that is.
Needless to say I was crushed! I was petrified...I kept thinking I could never live without Starry Night by my side...But, in time, like a good Libra, I learned to forgive it. Oh sure, it took many trips to relationship councelling, much screaming and suspicion, an armful of ruined dinners, and countless silent nights in bed choked with pathos and things left unsaid.
Starry Night swore it would never again do what it had done to me. "Never!" - it quoth, and I believed it. I looked into its turbulent, tortured eyes, I pressed myself against its mesmerising chest, and I believed it.
Fool!
So I'm preparing dinner (a week ago today *sob sob*) and I happen to turn on the local news, where the top story of the evening happened to be a police bust of a north Toronto massage parlour whorehouse. Now this sort of thing would usually have amused me to no end, the sweat suit-clad greasy-haired pimps being stuffed into police cars is quite a comical delight indeed...yet today was different.
As the news camera followed the head bordello-bustin' cop into the front door of the bawdy house, something caught my trained eye...yep you guessed it, it was Frank Stallone. And right next to him? Surrounded by underage Vaseline hookers?........my Starry Night. It was leaning up against a hot pink wall, looking blue, blue, blue...
Needless to say...we don't talk any more...at least not like we used to...it still hangs out over my bed sometimes although we never fool around anymore. I have moved it far along the wall so that it's closer to the window. I'm hoping that the Sun will do its radiation thing and dot its beautiful face with wrinkles and liver spots through the coming years...I would have preferred a quicker solution like throwing battery acid in its face...but then again, we don't live under the Taliban.
No, no...I've found a new way to torture it...I have began dating its taller, more vibrant brother; Cafe Terrace.
Its working out on so many levels...visually, sexually, and most importantly, punitively.
Now, Starry Night watches helplessly from above as I dish out my own super-sexy lady of the night mojo upon cobble stone and fledgeling electrical lights...
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