Thursday, April 21, 2005
I'm feeling a bit groggy this morning. I'm not quite sure what happened last night, although I vaguely recall how it started.
Many friends were calling me. Nonsensically they chanted "Four twenty!" They reminded me of babies that had soiled their diapers and gleefully wanted to tell somebody. "Mommy! Poopie!"
I used to smoke lots of weed. Most of my friends are stoners. Therefore, none of this inane hollering surprised or bothered me. At least they weren't quoting Sebastian Bach and Woody Harrelson interviews from High Times. At least they weren't uttering cringe inducing words like these: nugs, dank, ganj, reggae. Nope, they stuck to their cricket chirping "420!"
I barely smoke these days. I stopped buying it when I quit cigarettes. They went together, you see, and I can't scratch half an itch. For some silly reason yesterday I decided I would celebrate. It would be a sort of epilogue for my former habit.
Instead of my usual placid furniture-dwelling television-watching slackjawed nowhere stoniness, I behaved like I did when I was fifteen. I could taste the tarry brown resin on my tongue, and I got so high I giggled at nothing. My tolerance had completely evaporated over the past few months. Combine that with my regular diet of beer and speed and I was one apeshit monkey.
I know I watched some baseball and talked to the screen, but I can't remember when I went to bed. I can't remember the 10th or 11th beer. When I woke up at five this morning, I was facedown in a miniature cheesecake. I'd eaten half of it. I used a plastic fork until it had broken, and then a spoon. Clumps were stuck in my eyelashes. My stomach hurt. I thirsted for water, desperately.
From now on, I'll dare to say no. 7:10 AM - Bottle Rocket Fire Alarm
RECENTMonopoly At Dawn
A Brief History
Mean Spirited Urine
Static Thesaurus Science
Steel Wool Underwear
The Eulogy Continues