I am the Lonesome Cowboy and I am wearing my shorts. They have flowers, and pussycats. They smell good and keep me company through long, cold nights spent howling at the moon.
I am the Lonesome Cowboy, a monument to the victimhood of suburban convenience. (To be continued as soon as I understand what that means.)
I am the Lonesome Cowboy, at least for the weekend, but possibly forever, if I can't find a place to catch a bath and do my laundry. I keep asking the cat to pull his own weight but he just goes and has another nap. Still lonesome here.
I am the Lonesome Cowboy, sitting all alone in the dark, on a damp and dreary rain-stained evening, covered in ants, yet again. I swear, I have no idea how this keeps happening.
I am the Lonesome Cowboy, standing alone, in the wind, in the shade, with my tongue stuck to a flagpole, waiting for winter to give me a reason for this.
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Me? Oh, well.
