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Part 2 of Upon Waking and then knowing and then....nothing

I found the Moet. Right where I left it. On the table. Warm. Un-chilled. Not necessarily any longer wanted. Who wants warm Moet? I don't. Others don't. That leaves a short list of takers. Maybe Julie does. I think to myself what that conversation would be like.

Me: Hey, Jules. Want some warm Moet?

Julie: No thanks. But thanks.

Me: You said thanks twice. That's grammatically wrong. Sounds weird. Here.

Julie: Thanks, no. I said no already. What? No. I don't want any.

Me: Right. But you also said 'thanks' twice. So doesn't that negate the 'no'?

Jule: I'm fucking Ron Jeremy right now. Please stop interupting me so you can act out your uninhibited conversations with me when I'm not even there. It's really post-dramatic depressing like. So stop.

Me: Right.

I know that's what it would be like. Julie is like that. All selfish and self serving. But she's not a real blonde, so I'm ok with it now. Before, if this had happened, and I thought she was a real blonde, I'd have been a bit disappointed. But now? No. She's a fake.

Julie: Are you sure?

Me: You're not here. You're with Ron. Bye.

Yeah, definately a fake. I mean, come on. She's smart. But I guess blondes are too. But she's a fake blonde, totally. No doubt.

Me: Wait, Jules. Seriously. Are you a real or fake?

Julie: I'm not here, remember? 'oh Ron....'

Fake. The bitch has to be fake. She's a bitch and she's fake and that's what I will believe because it allows me to contain my sanity in a nice neat snowglobe that I can shake up any time I want. And that's the reality of it all.

Warm Moet. No thank you. I walk to the trash to throw the half empty bottle out and I remember that by finding the Moet, I am by extension finding my sex. But without an outlet, I think, what good is this?

I look up at the ceiling near the trash. The trash can, by the way, is a small squat little bamboo basket from a mail order catalogue. Fifty-Two dollars. Discount. But I'm looking up at the ceiling and I say:

Me: Snatch.
Me: The movie?
Me: No the 'you know'...
Me: No I don't. What?
Me: Snatch.
Me: Yeah, I heard you. THE MOVIE?????
Me: NO!!! You know....
Me: No.
Me: Snatch.

That's my goal really. I guess. But not really. I want more. I really do. I want the hollywood star on that blvd. I want the cold, chilled Moet. In a club. With friends. With blondes. Without Julie. Without trash. Without warm Moet. I want the lights. The cameras. The action. The drugs. The sex. The fame. The fortune.

I stop my thoughts for a moment to do a line of coke off the counter. It's left over from last nights warm Moet party. There are actually three lines. I finish the first and move on to the second, only finishing half. It's morning. Still early. Have to 'pace myself'.

Me: Blow.
Me: The movie?
Me: No.
Me: Oh.
Me: Blow.
Me. Yeah....
Me: Blow.

I stand above the sink now and I'm pouring out the warm Moet, watching it swirl and twirl and zig-zag down the stainless steel sink. The new age deco designed designer modern retro metallic sink thing. Things. Thingz. I am a corporate brand. I am the American plate at the Chinese restaurant. I am the hamburger on the menu next to the Thai Peanut Noodles and the Mongolian Beef w/ Curried Brocoli. I exist to pour this warm Moet into the sink. Outside of that....?

The bottle is empty and I throw it out. I cannot help but marvel at the utter simplicity of the task. My hand goes up, bottle in hand, above the garbage can. It pauses. Releases said bottle. Swoosh. Crash. Shatter. Crinkle. Silence.

I stop whatever I might've been thinking of doing next. I think I might have decided to go on the deck and rearrange the fallen maple leafs. They don't
exist though. So it's good I stop. But I stop to finish the lines. One and a half total. Pure X. Flying so high. I'm a kite. But there is no wind. I am
the rock. The string is lost. I stop my rants and raves and I stop. I just stop.

Me: Blow.
Me: I got ya.
Me: Blow.

The phone is ringing. My nose is bleeding. The Moet is warm in the drain. The bottle is broken in the trash. I answer the phone. The blood drips on my bare chest. I had a shirt on. I don't now. I did not take it
off. My memory is skewed? I answer the phone. The blood won't stop. My shirt is on the floor near my right foot. The phone is ringing. The blood is salty. The blood are tears? I answer the phone. I put my shirt on. The phone is ringing. The blood is real.

Me: Hello?

Julie: Yeah, hey.

Me: Hello?

Julie: Jesus. Hello? Yeah.

Me: Hello?

Julie: You're fucked up aren't you? Aren't you?

Me: Oh. You. The fake. Yes, I might be Jules. But I found the Moet.

Julie: Warm?

Me: Yes. You knew.

Julie: Hmm. Could you pick me up from Ron's? I thought we could do lunch?

My nose is so very sore. It is swollen and bleeding. My shirt is soaked with sweat. The phone is not ringing. My nose my nose my nose. Shit. My shirt
smells like Moet. It is warm. There is no sweat. The house is cold. The blood is on the phone. Silence. The sink is dry when I look now. No Moet. I poured the warm Moet on my shirt.

Julie: Hello? Can you drive?

Me: Oh. Right. I'll be there then.

Julie: Ok. See you in a few then.

Me: Right. Right. Ok. Ok.

I hang he phone up and put the wet shirt on. My nose is not bleeding. I can not feel my hands. The keys are in my pocket and I am going to pick up the fake blonde for lunch. There is no escape from my brand. I am a designer label soaked in warm Moet. Jules is a fake blonde. The phone is on the floor. Blood is dripped and splattered on it. The back patio door is open.

I walk to the front door and exit. I am starting to feel normal again and I almost start to forget where I am going. I finished the coke and all that is left is a bag of pills in the glove box. I decide I will leave these for lunch. I decide I will leave them for after the fake blonde. I will leave them for when I need to forget that reality. I am the American plate and I
am doing lunch soon. Soon. Soon. Soon.

Here I come Julie. Here I am. Hi Julie. Let's go Julie. Oh hi Ron. See you Ron. Right Ron. Bye Ron. Ciao. Hi Julie. Hi Julie.

Julie: ...

Me: Hi Julie.

Julie: Where are you taking me for lunch?

Me: Chang-Tao Garden.

Julie: What?

Me: You'll like the American plate.

Julie: What?

Me: And the warm Moet.

My nose is bleeding as I drive the road. Julie is silent now. She does not want the American plate at the Chang-Tao Garden. She does not want warm Moet.
But this is the way of things. Right. I do not want the fake blonde in the seat next to me. I only want the pills between her legs. In the glovebox.

Me: Blow.
Me: Snatch.

I smile as I say this. My nose drips blood.

Julie: What?

I can smell the American plate. The warm Moet is ready...