I was in rehab with a guy in his early twenties. His name was Nick. He was covered head to toe with tattoos, one side of his face was permanently discolored from being pronounced "legally dead", for four minutes. Nick had some pretty amazing stories, all revolving around his toxic escapades and reckless lifestyle. One of Nick's most predominantly entertaining stories was a tale of one of his friends (we'll call him Ed) who befriended an imaginary Kool- Aid guy. Before letting Ed into his parents house, he would ask him if he was with the Kool-Aid guy. Ed would look down over his shoulder and pretend not to see him.
Nick told me when Ed was with the Kool-Aid guy, he was serious trouble to be around. Ed's twist consisted of Acid, MDMA, and Mescaline. There was something about this lethal combination that would always send Ed over the edge. When under the influence ED would do things like steal the front door of your parents house (when nobody was looking), and go running naked down the street screaming that someone was trying to kidnap the Kool-Aid guy.
Another interesting thing Ed would do when the Kool-Aid guy was around, was "calling shotgun" for the Kool-Aid guy with a friend's car full of people. What was funny behavior at first gradually turned cumbersome.
Nick was into junk, dirt bikes, and women. He checked out against medical advise twelve days into rehab, due to the fear that his probation officer would find him and book him, mainly due to ongoing warrants and non-compliance,
Wednesday, April 25, 2012
Tuesday, April 10, 2012
Fiction: I'm Not Sorry
What lies between my index finger and the middle one. Hungry, your panties twist in agitation and fury. Her pale skin as frail as the full moon. Glimmering twilight in the indoor shade of velvet symmetry. Neon billboards, the city skyline heaves strong toxic odor coming up from a raw sewage underground. Rotting infrastructure, don't lie to me. I've spent countless hours dwindling pointlessly in the false pedestrian pavilion. (in reference to the wicker people: circus thermometer as well):also: Check Pillow Talk, "A Significant Survey".
An era of bad timing increases exponentially in the domestic maid arena. I'm a helpless emigrant that is not inspired by Plymouth Rock in it's Neptune of chaotic transformation. You who have read Stephen Hawking, go Fuck yourself, and you who believe in the Mayans, work on your elementary vocabulary after school. It is intelligent people who do not aspire to work for a living and collect food stamps.
Gasoline and all it has to offer in alcoholic suburbia. An afternoon strip mall that is conveniently designed to meet the needs you do not naturally require. Dry cleaning, embalming fluid, pizza, and bring your 5-piece fried chicken family to the neighborhood mall. We'll all visit the flashing arcade. We'll pump quarters into the pinball machines, I'll hit on your fifteen year old daughter. She's got to learn sometime, it might as hell be now, and you are not going to stop me. You hate your life. You work forty hours a week, driving a stupid station wagon to work. You drink beer on Sundays in front of the television while your stomach gets fatter and uglier. You don't even love your wife. You hate her more and more every day because you can't stand the fact that she married you. What in the hell is wrong with you anyway? You followed directions your whole life, now all you have to show for it is a festering tumor full of resentments, and a miserable household full of sons and daughters who are already boiling in defiance because you raised them.
Simmering down towards the end of the long week outside, amidst an assembly of assorted trees. It's even too pleasantly cool for mosquitoes. Towards evening, we have a nice talk over the patio furniture about how we are so happy we never had kids. You pure me another margarita out of the shaker, I add, "easy on the sour mix honey, too much gives me heartburn". I drink seventeen margaritas, you sip two of them. Towards the end of the night I'm so miserably drunk I think it a great idea to walk up on the roof and shout obscenities at cars and people strolling by. One of our neighbors calls the police. I wake up in jail for public drunkenness, and a minor case of simple assault. For what I do not know.
An era of bad timing increases exponentially in the domestic maid arena. I'm a helpless emigrant that is not inspired by Plymouth Rock in it's Neptune of chaotic transformation. You who have read Stephen Hawking, go Fuck yourself, and you who believe in the Mayans, work on your elementary vocabulary after school. It is intelligent people who do not aspire to work for a living and collect food stamps.
Gasoline and all it has to offer in alcoholic suburbia. An afternoon strip mall that is conveniently designed to meet the needs you do not naturally require. Dry cleaning, embalming fluid, pizza, and bring your 5-piece fried chicken family to the neighborhood mall. We'll all visit the flashing arcade. We'll pump quarters into the pinball machines, I'll hit on your fifteen year old daughter. She's got to learn sometime, it might as hell be now, and you are not going to stop me. You hate your life. You work forty hours a week, driving a stupid station wagon to work. You drink beer on Sundays in front of the television while your stomach gets fatter and uglier. You don't even love your wife. You hate her more and more every day because you can't stand the fact that she married you. What in the hell is wrong with you anyway? You followed directions your whole life, now all you have to show for it is a festering tumor full of resentments, and a miserable household full of sons and daughters who are already boiling in defiance because you raised them.
Simmering down towards the end of the long week outside, amidst an assembly of assorted trees. It's even too pleasantly cool for mosquitoes. Towards evening, we have a nice talk over the patio furniture about how we are so happy we never had kids. You pure me another margarita out of the shaker, I add, "easy on the sour mix honey, too much gives me heartburn". I drink seventeen margaritas, you sip two of them. Towards the end of the night I'm so miserably drunk I think it a great idea to walk up on the roof and shout obscenities at cars and people strolling by. One of our neighbors calls the police. I wake up in jail for public drunkenness, and a minor case of simple assault. For what I do not know.
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