Roush

[Johnny]

Roush;
you might say you know the kid, but the truth is that you only bumped elbows with him at the crowded keg tap table, where a slosh of PBR ran down your top after escaping the confines of his red dented solo cup. you don't remember that he never said sorry. only the shape of his crooked half smile you took as a compliment but was in actuality flashed as a distraction.

however, if it's a compliment you want, roush is always able to cook something up. and it's always the kind of praise you'll keep in your back pocket to take out on days when it's your last chance at a pick-me-up. he's got talent when it comes to kissing insecurities (just know that means he sees them easily). thus, he attracts the kind of girl who lacks an archive of self-esteem. but there's more to roush than interpersonal effectiveness skills.

the aura of confidence he wears like too much axe is just a distraction from his utter lack thereof. this deficit is the product of childhood neglect, which cripples his ability to trust anyone who doesn't rely on him in some way or another. these abandonment issues are to blame for the bull-headed obsession with his complete independence from everyone. he believes himself free but it really is just a weight around his ankle, pulling him not to the bottom of the sea but the sewers. there he resides with a stubborn insistence of his false contentment.

and now, because you'll find out no other way, i'll tell you that somewhere under the ashy slabs of lung tissue resides a beating heart, upon which one rip is still struggling to scar over (the last word you'll hear him say is 'ataxia'). so even though he's warm on your back and quite the party prize, he'll be gone long before the sun wakes up. so my advice is to resist the bad boy charm he wears on the outside, and to refrain from weaving fantasies about holding hands, because when he loosens his grip, it's for good, and you'll need to cradle your palms for the warmth you lost (and we all know loss hurts worse than never-had-it).

don't go thinking he's stone cold and able to accept the life he pretends to love. his selection of crutches grows constantly. a few favored vices of his are the chewing of tobacco leaves --he likes the way it makes his blood prickle --and an increasing number of one-night stands (coupled with a decreasing bank of memory-dedicated names). like the skunk, an old acquaintance of his, he has explored the distant reaches of his subconscious via the vessel of peyote-cactus mescaline trips. but all he ever found in those dreams was an uninhabitable wasteland.

now, all these warnings don't necessarily apply; not all girls go weak in the knees for a guy with overo tattoos, chestnut ink. besides, it takes a girl with a freaky side to find his eyes attractive (amber resin yellow, pupils like fossilized insects inside). but, if he doesn't leave you squirming (and in some cases regardless), you'll find in roush a guy to pine over. just don't let him see you cry, beg, or whine, because that's the setup for a signature roush sexual dine and dash.

lastly, i want to say, if you disregard this surgeon general's warning,

good luck.

image (c) afifaery1189 @ deviantart

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