As such things go, it turned out to be pretty full of chaos. Chock to the brim with random acts committed by those intrinsically yearning for the release that comes with the knowledge that you’re riding the fine line between sanity and a stable mind. Between love, and hate. Peace, and agitation.
Love, and Hate. But, then again, it’s all pretty relative. The property destruction. Hurt feelings. Abused relationships. It’s all pretty Gonzo, when you think about it. The kind of Gonzo that gripped Mr. Thompson and his companion in the depths of their deepest binges. Or is it? For to perceive the self is to peer through any number of lenses, each distorting the inalienable, pure form that is truly YOU.
Many hide, finding solace in the realities they perceive as true, their self image as they perhaps wish it were. And rightly so. If you can, if you can fight off the smoldering urge of doubt, the deep, keening thrust to doubt everything, then do so at your own risk. For to hide the dark and lethal rage that skitters so, perhaps not so brightly in all of us, then certainly within mine bosom, to toy with intelligence, that delicious fire rained down upon us by Lord Prometheus, is at times to grasp the limits of potential buried within us all.
Potential. Define quality. Define right. Define passion. Could I, I would. Now I see them within the context of certain indoctrinated, other willfully obtained fundamental beliefs about reality, the human existence, and my potential within the future of the human race. Perhaps I can shed these layers, to find a more pure notion of existence.
We were three, again, that most stable and malicious of numbers. It’s true that three people can keep a secret if two of them are dead. Three, though, as long as you have the right three, can also cause ten times the amount of chaos and anarchy than one or even twenty men together.
Look for a lack of initiative; seek the chronically depressed; find those who can easily bypass their moral compasses; perhaps stumble upon one standing in a hallway, talking to himself benevolently. For the benevolence and purity with which they lead their lives allows them alternately to unleash savagery and chaos at the drop of ten pounds of quarters in a pig stomach sack.
And if you find those fine feathered folk, wrap them within you, mesh your persona with theirs, suck up their intricacies and faults, play with them awhile, then let those unfit slipslide into nothingness. Then, proceed as follows, your gods willing.
First, miss work on Thursday, having stayed out not too late the night before, but certainly missed the alarms the next day. Preferably, make out with a decent but kind of chunky chick in the hallway of a closing bar, having passed up the hotter chick for some reason. Availability is a bitch.
That day, IM in sick, for you cannot locate your boss’s number, but can get to him through the fucking glorious wonders of modern fucking mobile techmology. Proceed on an aimless walk into town, then hop into a movie, cry like a bitch if it happens to deal with father son relations and you’ve had a pretty interesting score odd years with yours, all the while tasting from the fruits of that most ganjanous of plants.
Spend a nervous and early night with friends, taking her easy. Sleep for three hours, missing a late night call from a serious hottie who had practically begged you to call her. Work from three to six in the ante meridian as security for the cofuckingoperative place you live at.
Sleep a few more hours, get on the Friday bus, where you eat old vegetables, nickel taste on your tongue, and shred one whole cigarette onto them. Puke right out of the bus, walk in looking and feeling green. Sell the boss on the sickness story, mention something about late night vomiting and sudden bowel movements. Remain calm. Coolly walk the halls, sneering occasionally, and max on some serious scopeage of the hardbodies roaming the lobby. Dive into work, isolation behind Rachmananov, Chopin, Paganini, Bach.
The random energy flowing into the music, the urge to kill way low, complete confidence and cold drive. Own it. Then, leave. GTFO. Thank fucking god.
I should go pay these bills, but I’m just gonna go freebase with my friends.
Meet up with your boy, Armtatt your best mate, one of the three, smoke some more, drink some 40 Oz. Malt liquor, baby. Bullshit, checking myspace. Make a shirt that says FUCK
Go to the party, almost blacked out. Run into probably the hottest girl, Greeneyes, you’ve ever been most likely, but probably only fairly minorly, involved with. Get taskmastered into slapping her ass repeatedly, by the Tattmaster, one solid yet of potential broseph, as she alternately topples onto the couch and tries to turn up the volume on some song she supposedly likes.
Party till the cops show, and if the rookie first in looks at the
NOTE: If her brother’s there, and she’s a pretty open girl, she might not him to know it. So there’s no sex in the fucking champagne room.
Anyway, sleep under the AC vent for five hours, shivering violently awake under a bedsheet. Immediately smoke weed with the young lad, then all head for some packed amusement park. Ride two rides in five hours, getting to know the girls, showing forms of violent attention deficit disorder, yelling and dancing, spitting, grinding, anything. Lick the seat of the ride when you’re on, causing various reactions, including disgust, delight, despair, bouncing in anticipation, after having made pretty eyes at some blonde hotties in the VIP line.
Anything to combat boredom. Anything for attention. On the trolley back to the parkinglot, sit next to the blond hotties from the ride, and tell them that you used to skin goats in
Blow kisses back to the gorgeous girls as they leave for ever.
Get ditched by one car, and climb into the trunk, reminding the girl at the helm to please not kill you.
At CPK, street ballet with the other two of potential, make children smile, spike up your hair and sag your pants below your ass. Wear sunglasses. Inside, scowl behind your shades at the hottie waitress, feeling mildly angry that there are no hotties in range that you can taunt. Head home for an early night. Heavy drinking, Salvia, grotesque Japanese films. Lots of sex in the bedroom, but you’re not in line. Shit.
Sunday. Wake up, bounce around, smoke a bunch of cigs, out of the good stuff, the girls leave, lounge around, then catch a cab around five, headed for a boat party way south. Take the cab three miles out of the way to the wrong dock, at dusk, get directions to the right place, fail to pick up any of the many cabs along the way, street balletting on the way, try to hitchhike, frantically searching for an ATM. You get calls every five minutes that the boat is waiting.
After an hour, get there, shove eighty bucks into someone’s hand, blinders on for the bar, chomping at the bit by the doormen, jonesing for the lovelies you see milling about inside. Wait at the packed open bar for drinks. Make your acquaintance rounds, see Greeneyes, who’s looking gorgeous. She’s giving off an indifferent vibe, but has been quite fleety in the past.
If you think some midthirties hottie is pushing in line, call her an asshole. When she gets mad, dismiss her with a wave, sneering at the look of shock that passes briefly across her fair but somewhat plain visage. Get as many Budweisers as you can hold, and go mingle.
DO NOT SIT DOWN. Sitting down is the kiss of death. If you’re down, you’re out of line of sight. No one can see you any more. No more making pretty eyes at the ladies. Additionally, you are in a less defensible position in case of attack. Always expect attack. Do not let your guard down for one second.
If there’s one thing that riding a motorcycle at high speeds for tens of thousands of miles teaches you, it’s that the slightest fucking mistake, a few pounds of mass miscalculated, wind resistance gone suddenly in a freak pocket, and you’re bouncing meatloaf. So never let your guard down. Even for a second.
Stumble upon the girl you called an asshole, and fess up to the act immediately, subtly daring her guy friends to go ahead and start something. They squeak, but don’t budge. Shrugging off the accusations and complaints of her girlfriends is hardly worth mentioning. Wander around the two story ship. Avoid dancing while on the dancefloor. Make conversation with hotties when something, anything happens. Just don’t stop drinking.
At some point, you may find yourself on the steps leading up to the dancefloor, blacking out, talking to god knows who. If a gay man pauses to say something to you, then leans in and kisses you, spit as hard as you can in his face. He’ll most likely get pretty upset, and start making a scene. Calmly tell him all the while to punch you in the face, cursing him quietly, calmly. Security should come and take him away. That’s probably because he’s the louder of the two. It’s not wise to kiss a drunk. Especially one you’ve never met.
At some point, the port cops will show up. Join in the chanting demanding them to let everyone drink, even those underage. Once they leave, on good terms, make your way to the dancefloor, having caught Greeneyes’ backward glance. Shuffle about, grinding in the press of bodies. Proceed to grope her, despite her constant removal of your hands from inappropriate places. You most likely will be pretty drunk, and quite uncoordinated, and lustless, so don’t take it too much to heart when she blends into the milling bodies, not to be consciously seen again that night.
Once the boat docks, take a while getting off, and stumble into the parkinglot. If everyone’s gone, but one lone cab is pulling up to pick up a somewhat distressed girl, see if you can get a ride. If it’s the girl you called an asshole, most certainly get in. Then, when you get to the bar where everyone is meeting, ditch her with the cab fare, and go off with Necktatt for some mischief.
At a taco place, block a carfull of chicks’ passage to the drivethrough, should they denounce you two as fags. Try to order food, and, if turned down, proclaim that if you’re not getting any, no one will. Then watch as Necktatt launches himself into the standalone speakerbox where you order you food. If in an attempt to stumble away after your slowly fleeing friend you crash into the screen with the food types and prices, damaging that too, then run. Run.
Hide in alleyways, peering out to see people searching. Jump some fences, violate someone’s yard on the way through, then emerge by chance by the bar, and quickly get inside. If your friends try to get in one after the other, using the same ID, they will most likely get denied. Send poor called an asshole girl to the back, where she lets them in, buying them beer for some odd reason.
If things get pretty hazy at this point, and you only can rely on third person accounts, that’s ok. If possible though, spit on a girl’s face; have her put a cigarette out on your left cheek, supposedly because you were being an asshole. Proceed to harass the bar, and at some point get kicked in the face by a girl, possibly outside, perhaps in line for the bathroom, who knows. Roam the bar with blood running down your chin, but do not under any circumstances stop trying to work the ladies.
Call in the girls from the amusement park, have them come pick you up, as Armtatt speeds off with his hottie girlfriend. Spend an awkwardly conscious and freakishly sober ride back to Necktatt’s, where you once again crash on the floor.
The next day, spend it sobering up at P.F. Chang’s, ordering far more than you can eat, hitting on the untaken blonde hottie. Get to know her brother. Work that in your favor. Never remove your shades, or treat the waiter as a stranger. Debate seeing a movie, don’t. Go back, lounging till the girls leave for points east, and you celebrate the culmination of the last few days hating life, taking public transportation.
No comments:
Post a Comment