I wrote this this morning...
I spent the morning drinking cheap wine trying to get a buzz, trying to get some sleep. I dont see how winos and housewives do it, get up on this.
It's been an hour and the bottle is all but dead and my mouth is still dry.
...
Not even ten minutes after writing that, up came the crampy-cramps. The sweats.
And i'm watching Platoon like i'd never seen it.
Like i dunno who's gonna die.
I hope Forrest Witaker, Willem Dafoe, and Johnny Depp live. I hope i hope i hope.
And it takes a long time but the belly aches take a break and the crunchy pain turns into a dull stab that feel so comfortable and light and manageable and normal and good and good and good and good.
And relaxed.
And i've got approximately 3 or 4 oz of wine left and i have to open a new pack of Camels.
I've got three packs left. I cant imagine smoking that much.
I cant imagine it.
It's 840am and my comfortermy duvetis cold from when i opened my window a crack from when i was cramped and sweaty.
And my bed feels like all kinds of spring and i'm so relaxed right now. Right now, i'm relaxed.
And i'm sipping the rest of the wine.
My hair is longer than it's ever been. I can tip my head back and tickle my shoulder blades. I can lie down and roll over on it. I can pull it out by the roots. In my sleep.
I dont see how chicks can live with long hair.
And carry purses. My shit gets caught constantly.
I smell pancakes. My mother must be up.
I dunno why this happens when i drink, the sweaty crampy-cramps. Am i drinking too much too fast?
And i'm still not drunk. Atleast not drunk like i get drunk when i drink to get drunk.
If that makes any sense.
Right now, i'm just a little floaty.
...
Ok, i finally got to sleep at 10:30ish. Slept till two. I had a dream that i was blowing myself in front of Hilary Duff. Which is weird...cause i dont even LIKE Hilary Duff.
I barely know who she is.
Both Dave and David were at Sammy's tonight.
David is the guy i'm always bitching about. He's gay and in the closet and completely blocking all his homosexual urges. And he's aggro. Completely aggro. It wouldnt surprise me to find out that he'd forcefully sodomized a million guys whilst out on the road last time. Hmm.
Then there's Dave. Dave's a Johnny, in that he has a problem telling a story that's true. Or, atleast, wholly true.
He's also a military guy. And homophobic. I wasnt in the room 2 minutes before he was gay bashing. I dunno how much of it was passive aggressive and how much was said to mark a territory.
Miles was there too. And Sammy and Millie were dorking-off about some war/space/mmo game to my right and Dave and David were creeping me out with war talk. About hands and arms and heads and heat sensors and body temperatures and explosions and death and killing. And other fun American things. Like fast cars and bitches.
With everyone talking at the same time, it was hard to tell what was real and what was a game.
That's when i started feeling dizzy.
And Bob Dylan started playing in my head.
Which is weird...cause i barely know any Dylan songs.
But alteast i wasnt blowing myself.
I spent the morning drinking cheap wine trying to get a buzz, trying to get some sleep. I dont see how winos and housewives do it, get up on this.
It's been an hour and the bottle is all but dead and my mouth is still dry.
...
Not even ten minutes after writing that, up came the crampy-cramps. The sweats.
And i'm watching Platoon like i'd never seen it.
Like i dunno who's gonna die.
I hope Forrest Witaker, Willem Dafoe, and Johnny Depp live. I hope i hope i hope.
And it takes a long time but the belly aches take a break and the crunchy pain turns into a dull stab that feel so comfortable and light and manageable and normal and good and good and good and good.
And relaxed.
And i've got approximately 3 or 4 oz of wine left and i have to open a new pack of Camels.
I've got three packs left. I cant imagine smoking that much.
I cant imagine it.
It's 840am and my comfortermy duvetis cold from when i opened my window a crack from when i was cramped and sweaty.
And my bed feels like all kinds of spring and i'm so relaxed right now. Right now, i'm relaxed.
And i'm sipping the rest of the wine.
My hair is longer than it's ever been. I can tip my head back and tickle my shoulder blades. I can lie down and roll over on it. I can pull it out by the roots. In my sleep.
I dont see how chicks can live with long hair.
And carry purses. My shit gets caught constantly.
I smell pancakes. My mother must be up.
I dunno why this happens when i drink, the sweaty crampy-cramps. Am i drinking too much too fast?
And i'm still not drunk. Atleast not drunk like i get drunk when i drink to get drunk.
If that makes any sense.
Right now, i'm just a little floaty.
...
Ok, i finally got to sleep at 10:30ish. Slept till two. I had a dream that i was blowing myself in front of Hilary Duff. Which is weird...cause i dont even LIKE Hilary Duff.
I barely know who she is.
Both Dave and David were at Sammy's tonight.
David is the guy i'm always bitching about. He's gay and in the closet and completely blocking all his homosexual urges. And he's aggro. Completely aggro. It wouldnt surprise me to find out that he'd forcefully sodomized a million guys whilst out on the road last time. Hmm.
Then there's Dave. Dave's a Johnny, in that he has a problem telling a story that's true. Or, atleast, wholly true.
He's also a military guy. And homophobic. I wasnt in the room 2 minutes before he was gay bashing. I dunno how much of it was passive aggressive and how much was said to mark a territory.
Miles was there too. And Sammy and Millie were dorking-off about some war/space/mmo game to my right and Dave and David were creeping me out with war talk. About hands and arms and heads and heat sensors and body temperatures and explosions and death and killing. And other fun American things. Like fast cars and bitches.
With everyone talking at the same time, it was hard to tell what was real and what was a game.
That's when i started feeling dizzy.
And Bob Dylan started playing in my head.
Which is weird...cause i barely know any Dylan songs.
But alteast i wasnt blowing myself.
a conduit of shit is..... shit goes in , shit comes out, this is our purpose in life.
all i got from on the road is that god is poo bear. and don't get involved with migrant workers.
sounds like you had a night out with hunter s thomaon......
gay bashers and closet homos in the same room, all that hostility would've pused me over the edge, adn it would've been some crazy hater rap like ice-t or whatevea, not peacful enough for bob dylan, unless it was all crazy and angry and sad, if that makes sense.
eat a banana when or before you drink, see if that helps, when i know i'm gonna drink alot i keep a bunch stocked, it helps me from getting the shakes the next day.
i didn't get to any good parts, cuz that's when i actually woke up for real. and then i rubbed one out, for real.
god, i love that phrase.