Pendejo... I don't want nothing from you but dick-love. Dick, I can get everywhere and Love isn't that hard to conquer, considering my legions of psychologically skewed super-fans. But Dick-love, that's making your dick fall in love with me. Dicks don't have a heart, so I mean, it's hard, even when it's soft, but I taint a quitter.
I want to take you to Europe with me.
That's what I want from you.
Your company in an airplane bathroom, primarily. I could tell you myths about the Parisian cobblestones, and how they were brought, one by one, from Rome.
But I can't afford it. I can't buy anybody anything. So maybe, I can just get you really drunk, blindfold you and hold a picture of the Eiffel tower right up to your face for a couple hours. Don't...you know, don't throw up... but use your imagination. I'll speak to you only in French, in different voices, so that way you get the full city experience. And gently, I will GENTLY, nudge you with a baguette, till your whiskey dick is ready to serve in Napoleon's war ( Sheila goes by a different name overseas).
Look, pendejo, I only call you this because it's all I know, but you have to let me be romantic with you. And all that means is that I give you a one way trip to Xanadu, and you will wake up with ALL your organs present.
Maybe I can't be a sugar momma, like other girls could be, and maybe I'm not blue-blood enough for you, or hip like a prosthetic, but goddamnit, I have a hell of a lot of heart, a little soul, and an overactive imagination...so put on that cowboy hat and let me blow you back to the old west; we can play Oregon Trail on my computer afterwards.
For you. I would do it for you, except for the bad things. I would do those for me, but all the best I would do for you. So everyday can be a birthday, except for somedays, where I will be too tired to get out of bed. I will draw you a picture of a cake regardless of my headaches.
Celebrate Baby, but I hope whatever pussy you get for the night is rotten. (I can't help being a woman.)