A Cynic is a man who can find ugliness in everything and still want to sleep with it...
A great night can be divined by the forcing of the cab to stop, so you can open the door and lean out the window and wonder what your body is about to do next?…and judging by that criteria, tonight had been. I just wanted to get home, and despite my button down fastidiousness, I would probably forego the flossing and ritual placing my clothes in the right strata of ‘laundry readiness’ piles strewn about the floor…the rest of the night would be a dicey proposition.
Nothing can be as singularly inspirational as choking on your own vomit….the maternal instinct of the mother of invention had gone into overdrive, and I contrived to fork out $400 for a deluxe massage table; so I could wedge my bloated face through the padded donut hole and not have to aim for the bucket beneath while I sleep…Voila! A total luxurious necessity for nights like this, where there’s a great likelihood that tomorrow I would be dressed up like a ghost, and become just another statistical deviant in the annals of Mommy’s Urban Legend… complete with a particular grisly cautionary-tale ending….
I suppose in my haze, I lay the blame squarely on my enabling Gay Brother- who in my estimation, is the closest thing to a Pharmacologist a guy could have without a ‘scrip….He knows about drugs that haven’t been thought up yet….and all with a smile in his de rigueur leather harness and pierced nipples, pushing stuff into my hands and rushing me as he’s off to another all night festive occasion….resplendent in his assless suede chaps and not much else….not the sort of smart party where you bring a bottle of sangiovese wrapped in tin foil for the host as a thank you…
I was slightly awakened by the 7am monster truck tractor pull on the construction site next door to my impregnable bunker apartment…for an imperceptibly small window, it sure let’s in a lot of noise. These construction working Quebecers are doing their best effort impressions of Popeye in their hillbilly dialect ,and laughably calling it French- which is so insulting to the French culture…seriously guys, I apologize for these idiots.
If you have to ask yourself what did you get out of last night in addition to a godzilla hangover, you’ve missed the point, and should do back to back benders as penance for your impudence. I’m gingerly moving like Captain Scarlet, if he’d been run over by the Spectrum Patrol Vehicle…all super-marionettey and twisted- including my jaw…freaking out the old ladies at the supermarket, which is a total offset…OK what to do with the rest of the day?
Some people save things for a rainy day…but if you’re alive for it, you’re stuck inside anyway…your immune system is a flagrant form of censorship and a total buzzkill that must be met and mastered…dissipation should be an olympic event instead of being locked away in hand restraints and helmet.
Ever have a deathly fear that is so unthinkable, that when it finally happens you couldn’t even remotely think of an exit strategy…procrastination is a subconscious thing, holding out hope that some minor player in this movie will shoot the villain in the back, while you’re staring down the barrel of his gun…I am so in the crosshairs right now, and while waiting for something to fall into your lap is just a good way to get goosed; I’m paralyzed by a fear of performing on the highwire with the safety net above me. I gotta bust a move.
