No! I'm Spamacus!
17th June 2003
Saturday night, I was out with my buddies walking around on Sunset, going from bar to bar, club to club, etc. You were, presumably, with your girlfriends. As we neared each other, none of us made eye contact. It's as though we were trying not to look at each other. I sure as hell was.
But because of this, I wasn't looking where I was going either, and tripped on a crack in the pavement and tripped, falling forward, right as you were passing by. My arms flailed about and tried to grab the nearest sturdy thing to steady myself. That nearest thing ended up being your rack.
Unfortunately, your breasts weren't steady nor sturdy enough, so I kept falling. Along the way, your shirt and bra were torn off in the process. Your knockers, exposed to the night air, bounced with delight and glee.
Almost immediately, you came down upon me, fists rained down hellfire the likes of which I've never experienced. Your friends quickly joined in, pummeling me, while my own friends stood back and watched, giggling gayly as if their kindergarten classmate had just poohed his pants during recess.
It was when you were pepper spraying the shit out of me that we locked eyes for a moment. It was incredibly painful to keep my eyes open, due to the intense sting from the pepper spray, but I noticed how goddamn gorgeous your blue eyes were, and I think I noticed a moment of hesitation, almost admiration, perhaps. A hint of a smile formed on your face, and for a second, I thought you were going to kiss me, but then you head-butted me directly into the sidewalk, rendering me unconscious.
This, however, did not stop you from kicking me in the side, spitting on my face and stealing my wallet, while, yes, you were there, you know, my friends continued laughing and whooping it up like a bunch of drunken rednecks at a hoedown.
I had hoped to find your phone number scratched into my chest, along with the many other scratches from your fingernails, but alas, when I came to, nothing. Just blood and a few scattered teeth.
I sincerely hope you read this message because I think we had a connection, you and I. I want to see where this might lead. As long as it's not the ICU again.
Doesn't matter, got boob?
If he dies for his wounds, he savored his final moments; the breast for last.