The stupid jerk I’m obsessed with    stands so close to me I can feel his breath on my neck   and smell the way he would smell if we slept together   because he is The Stupid Jerk I’m Obsessed with    and that is his primary function in life   to be a Stupid Jerk I can Obsess over    and to talk with that dinghy bim bat blonde as if he really wanted to hear about her manicures and pedicures and new age ritualistic enema cures and    truth be known he probably does want to hear about it    because he is The Stupid Jerk I’m Obsessed with    and he’s obsessed with doing anything he can to lend fuel to my fire.       He makes a point of standing,    looking over my shoulder    when I’m talking to the guy who adores me    and would bark like a dog and wave to strangers if I asked him to    bark like a dog and wave to strangers,    but I can’t ask him to bark like a dog or impersonate any kind of animal at all    cuz I’m too busy lookin at the way The Stupid Jerk I’m Obsessed with    has pants on that perfectly define his well shaped ass    to the point where I’m thoroughly frantic.       I’m just gonna go home and stick my head in the oven,    overdose on nutmeg and aspirin and    sit in the bathtub reading the executioners song    and being completely confounded by the fact that I can see    The Stupid Jerk I’m Obsessed with’s face    defining itself in the peeling plaster of the wall    grinning and winking    and I start to yell “get the hell out a there.    You’re just a figment of my imagination.    Just get a life and get out of my plaster and pass me the next painful situation, please.” But he just keeps on grinning and winking.    He’s a Stupid Jerk I’m Obsessed with    and he’s mine,    in my plaster    and frankly I couldn’t be happier.