They made furious, angry noises about having warned her, and when she focused most clearly she could could remember. They'd said, they said: "Jaquelin! Don't put that thing in you mouth".
At the time, she'd thought that was a very medicocre warning. When she'd been a whole mess of youth, full of burgeoning ego and an almost overwhelming desire to prove her cajones there had been no easier way to convince her of something's worth.
And it applied, I'm speaking broadly you understand, it applied universally. To everything, or near enough. Ugly, vulgar liquids in vague glass bottles. Once or twice, a set of anonymous tablets, fresh of the boat from the orient. Or noxious, slender cigarettes that she'd found rested so very perfectly between her thumb and her forefinger, and left her feeling beautiful and breathless. Or the women. Pretty young women with wide eyes and glistening steely lips,who she'd found rested so very perfectly between her thumb and her forefinger, and left her feeling beautiful and breathless. And with each of them, she'd hear them say to her, they'd say: Jaquelin! Don't put that thing in your mouth.
And they tended to be right, after the fact. The liquor would leave her feeling wretched, which always lead to the pills. The pills, when she could remember, lead to a terrible whirlwind of indulgence. And when she was up on the roof, naked and looking for her underwear, she'd find the cigarettes would had left her with the most unpleasant hacking cough.
The girls had their own problems, and they all left their own scars. If you get her drunk, she might show you. If you get her drunk enough, she'll probably show you anything.
So she'd sniffed it, this bottle, this horrid, obscene smear of brown and rot-gut, and she heard him whisper in her ear.
"I wouldn't drink that, not if I were you."
It turns out, this time he was right. Never, not since her youth -- when she'd been convinced in her alchoholic grandeur to drink from a bourbon bottle filled with human urine --had she tasted something so very dreadful. Of course, by the third hit it tasted less like... anything. It was strangely compelling, just like the girl with the sharp teeth and the steely lips.
At the time, she'd thought that was a very medicocre warning. When she'd been a whole mess of youth, full of burgeoning ego and an almost overwhelming desire to prove her cajones there had been no easier way to convince her of something's worth.
And it applied, I'm speaking broadly you understand, it applied universally. To everything, or near enough. Ugly, vulgar liquids in vague glass bottles. Once or twice, a set of anonymous tablets, fresh of the boat from the orient. Or noxious, slender cigarettes that she'd found rested so very perfectly between her thumb and her forefinger, and left her feeling beautiful and breathless. Or the women. Pretty young women with wide eyes and glistening steely lips,who she'd found rested so very perfectly between her thumb and her forefinger, and left her feeling beautiful and breathless. And with each of them, she'd hear them say to her, they'd say: Jaquelin! Don't put that thing in your mouth.
And they tended to be right, after the fact. The liquor would leave her feeling wretched, which always lead to the pills. The pills, when she could remember, lead to a terrible whirlwind of indulgence. And when she was up on the roof, naked and looking for her underwear, she'd find the cigarettes would had left her with the most unpleasant hacking cough.
The girls had their own problems, and they all left their own scars. If you get her drunk, she might show you. If you get her drunk enough, she'll probably show you anything.
So she'd sniffed it, this bottle, this horrid, obscene smear of brown and rot-gut, and she heard him whisper in her ear.
"I wouldn't drink that, not if I were you."
It turns out, this time he was right. Never, not since her youth -- when she'd been convinced in her alchoholic grandeur to drink from a bourbon bottle filled with human urine --had she tasted something so very dreadful. Of course, by the third hit it tasted less like... anything. It was strangely compelling, just like the girl with the sharp teeth and the steely lips.
VIEW 4 of 4 COMMENTS
not sure, i think you were the one that recomended the godel/escher/bach book to me... found it today, going to hold off on it for now.
seems to be an easy one to find... and right now i'm rather wanting to find some of the 'harder' books... found kerouac... can't find the bukowski that i'm wanting.