It's 1am.
An otherwise pointless spurt of consciousness between an extended saturday afternoon nap and fluttering about aimlessly the next morning doing chores, chattering with friends over skillets, IMing....
An entire evening wasted because of a completely unscheduled drifting off into deep drooling unconsciousness on a sun-lit porch. covered in blankets. I mean who *wouldn't* right?
hot date out the window. she got a new boyfriend though, so fuckit for now. reconnecting with high school friends is always a slow sputtering process "sorry I didn't make it for dinner at whatever's...being unconscious was more important...yea ok next time" Don't lie. See no need to.
But then it's 1 am and SHE's chatting with you (moved up from phone messages, over to actual internet messaging. she must want to be close to someone tonight.) You've been curious about this SHE, playing little games back and worth. But now it's serious. she wants to CHAT)
And that's when she piles it in heavy. Fair warning and all "I'm about to pile it on heavy, are you ready?" Well no, but what can you say. "Of course," I said, knowing by this time there was probably nothing to distinguish the already intense tightness in my stomach caused by the first waves of the acid kicking in----- from the giddiness of lovelorn paranoia and its unfolding before me like a early blossom in springtime.
"Here's why I've been avoiding you and this that and the other" meanwhile I can't remember if I'm supposed to be avoiding her or sending "slight distinterest" signals mixed with a side of "I've got better things to do." Fucking acid screws up the frequencies. Not to mention that her IM window looks like someone drawing with lipstick on the *inside* of a bathroom mirror.
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Then, to top it all off, in pure synchronicity, her psychic twin calls and asks me what I'm doing. Goddamn it. This is already a lot to lay on someone with a head full of acid. A jilted semi-lover and her best friend, twin,-- [partner in some elaborate plot to destroy you while extracting your precious bodily fluids? perhaps...perhaps]-- and hopefully future slightly less jilted slightly more lover all coming together at once on an otherwise perfectly peaceful night that you could have spent in looking up at the stars wondering "When Will I Get Out of this Pisshole."
Soon, you know, no matter what, soon. But it's never soon enough is it? And even though you should see the pisshole from its good angle, as the brightly colored fur-trimmed-toilet-seat-cover that we all want to have someday. You know it's still just a pisshole. And what you're reaching for is forever out there and out of your grasp.
You know you'll never reach it. And you'll die trying to have reached it. And even now you know it will have been the journey not the destination. And blah blah blah...Somebody Feed this poor bastard his Medicine! He's gone into another one of his frenzies and we have no idea when these thought patterns will become some sort of confabulatory catatonic state where he's locked into a permanent drooling psychotic dream mode, thinking up his own reality in his head when he's really just here in a wheelchair pissing his diapers and grinning stupidly as the morning shift nurse feeds him his porridge with a plastic spoon.
For all he knows, he might already be there. FUCK!!! Somebody pull the goddamn feeding tube already, this is unbearable.
Or maybe...
on second thought...
leave that tube in and hit me with a little more dilaudid, would ya nurse? If you can even hear me? HELLO?!
How long have we been out here jabbering? Do these entries even have a maximum word length? IS this REALLY the time to try and find out? Your insides laid out in a bare pile next to two flanks of beef. Somebody hide that shit before it goes rotten. Grind it up. Maybe it'll be good for tomorrow's breakfast sausage.
No way to possible go back and edit all the terrible spelling mistakes and poor choices of diction. They'll come and hang me for it in the morning. No doubt. No doubt. Nothing to be done about that now but sleep with clenched fists and gritted teeth. A sharp bowie knife with a cork on the tip tightly wrapped under my pillow.
Sweet dreams lovers.
An otherwise pointless spurt of consciousness between an extended saturday afternoon nap and fluttering about aimlessly the next morning doing chores, chattering with friends over skillets, IMing....
An entire evening wasted because of a completely unscheduled drifting off into deep drooling unconsciousness on a sun-lit porch. covered in blankets. I mean who *wouldn't* right?
hot date out the window. she got a new boyfriend though, so fuckit for now. reconnecting with high school friends is always a slow sputtering process "sorry I didn't make it for dinner at whatever's...being unconscious was more important...yea ok next time" Don't lie. See no need to.
But then it's 1 am and SHE's chatting with you (moved up from phone messages, over to actual internet messaging. she must want to be close to someone tonight.) You've been curious about this SHE, playing little games back and worth. But now it's serious. she wants to CHAT)
And that's when she piles it in heavy. Fair warning and all "I'm about to pile it on heavy, are you ready?" Well no, but what can you say. "Of course," I said, knowing by this time there was probably nothing to distinguish the already intense tightness in my stomach caused by the first waves of the acid kicking in----- from the giddiness of lovelorn paranoia and its unfolding before me like a early blossom in springtime.
"Here's why I've been avoiding you and this that and the other" meanwhile I can't remember if I'm supposed to be avoiding her or sending "slight distinterest" signals mixed with a side of "I've got better things to do." Fucking acid screws up the frequencies. Not to mention that her IM window looks like someone drawing with lipstick on the *inside* of a bathroom mirror.
-------------------
-------------------
Then, to top it all off, in pure synchronicity, her psychic twin calls and asks me what I'm doing. Goddamn it. This is already a lot to lay on someone with a head full of acid. A jilted semi-lover and her best friend, twin,-- [partner in some elaborate plot to destroy you while extracting your precious bodily fluids? perhaps...perhaps]-- and hopefully future slightly less jilted slightly more lover all coming together at once on an otherwise perfectly peaceful night that you could have spent in looking up at the stars wondering "When Will I Get Out of this Pisshole."
Soon, you know, no matter what, soon. But it's never soon enough is it? And even though you should see the pisshole from its good angle, as the brightly colored fur-trimmed-toilet-seat-cover that we all want to have someday. You know it's still just a pisshole. And what you're reaching for is forever out there and out of your grasp.
You know you'll never reach it. And you'll die trying to have reached it. And even now you know it will have been the journey not the destination. And blah blah blah...Somebody Feed this poor bastard his Medicine! He's gone into another one of his frenzies and we have no idea when these thought patterns will become some sort of confabulatory catatonic state where he's locked into a permanent drooling psychotic dream mode, thinking up his own reality in his head when he's really just here in a wheelchair pissing his diapers and grinning stupidly as the morning shift nurse feeds him his porridge with a plastic spoon.
For all he knows, he might already be there. FUCK!!! Somebody pull the goddamn feeding tube already, this is unbearable.
Or maybe...
on second thought...
leave that tube in and hit me with a little more dilaudid, would ya nurse? If you can even hear me? HELLO?!
How long have we been out here jabbering? Do these entries even have a maximum word length? IS this REALLY the time to try and find out? Your insides laid out in a bare pile next to two flanks of beef. Somebody hide that shit before it goes rotten. Grind it up. Maybe it'll be good for tomorrow's breakfast sausage.
No way to possible go back and edit all the terrible spelling mistakes and poor choices of diction. They'll come and hang me for it in the morning. No doubt. No doubt. Nothing to be done about that now but sleep with clenched fists and gritted teeth. A sharp bowie knife with a cork on the tip tightly wrapped under my pillow.
Sweet dreams lovers.
VIEW 24 of 24 COMMENTS
skryche:
Thanks, man. I'd like that.
aes_sedai:
'Good artists borrow. Great artists steal' - Salvador Dali