My mind spun,
heavier than the cylinder on a Magnum, gunmetal gray to be exact, much like the dark skies’ transcending and throbbing at me. The empty 40-ounce bottles duct taped to both palms are now starting to weigh like kettle bells. This predicament is both thoughtfully and thoughtlessly given the name,
“Edward 40 hands.”
Where the idiot (Me, in this case) has no choice but to guzzle like a whale until your buddies free you from your overambitious ego. The funny part is, the victim will always wonder, “how the hell does one take a piss?”
Packed Marlboro 27’s shuffled out like a deck of trick cards, or more relatively speaking, x-acto blades, the way I was running them through my cardboard lungs. The cyclical process of chain smoking and drinking the devil’s bathwater led my friend to give me the only good advice he’ll ever give me,
“save some breath.”
For 2 weeks, there was a food shortage in the house and all I had in my stash were Golden Crisp Cereal (half-eaten) and cherry flavored cough syrup. It was miserable.
One day God pitched me an idea.
I say God because it’s borderline impossible to execute successfully, but for some reason I wanted it so bad. I recorded an album in one take and sent it in with a ghetto magazine cut out as an album cover, into 88.1 jazz radio station. I sent in my CV under the name “Sugar Bear,” inspired by the time I spent making music rationing Golden Crisp Cereal for a less than satisfactory satiation method; Sugar bear seemed appropriate, besides he seemed to always be mocking me in front of the box. I still vividly remember that day: I skateboarded there in the pouring rain, had on a dark blue sports jacket, retro 1969 Expos baseball team shirt for the sake of, I always rooted for the underdog and this team simply doesn’t exist anymore (It was 2012), Volcom jeans, and a pair of maroon Nike SB’s, all topped with a blunt 1-gauge around my skull, exposing widow’s peak and all. As expected, I got a quick tour around their studio but didn’t get any airplay. I had the audacity but my persistence was snuffed by my distractions, like most “w/c/should’ve’s” in life. All I can hope is that the cd is sitting on their shelf collecting dust next to a Wes Montgomery record or something. I’d like to go back and retrieve it someday just to see that part of my character.
I volunteered a date with myself.
OJ for vitamins, a strange pill for the sake of my intolerance of boredom, and strong black coffee to chase it down. At first I was baffled by the sugary drenched waffle I just forced down. I did a quick double take on my haste to instinctively satisfy my cravings of sugar, versus praying before such a potentially diabetic enabling breakfast, simply because my mother asked me to pray before meals. “Amen,” I properly concluded, then stood equally as fast as the ensuing sugar rush to the rear dome and felt the hot nosebleed above my lip. I paid the plastic smile behind the register and laughed out loud when my eyes traveled up to meet a strange disgusted look. “Oh, right! The nose!” Immediately cupping my snout like a beatbox. “Where are your pants, sir?” The cashier suddenly asked. “The fuck?” I thought, peeped down south, then slowly turned around wide-eyed upon a room full of snickering eyes; I flinched as a mother desperately clawed after her child’s eyes to shield her innocence. I bolted for the door that ironically opened one way (the wrong way) and jammed as I fidgeted with the push/pull for the longest 2.5 seconds of my life. Finally stumbling into a loud busy street; I thought I heard some one comment, “Can’t unsee that, nope,” as I ran out, nearly tripping over a gang of snorting pugs. To this day I will never know if that was my imagination or if that was too real to fathom. What’s real is that I’ve watched too many stoned sitcoms glued to a couch boarding teens that had their parent’s legacies written out for them; their eyes almost lifeless. Truth was, we all wanted to stand out in our unique ways but didn’t want to take chances so just played it safe and blended in with the scenery.
One day I took a “study pill” to write an insanely long and boring paper. I took a moment to take wonder. It was abruptly brought to my attention the level of activity that a cat can curiously multi task, especially when practicing a religion of being two-faced. Not a single person believes me when I tell them that cats have a bipolar approach to life. You see, I understand that a cat can predict and react in a millisecond, the same way that they are so agile and can basically catapult themselves on top of cars. They are perpetually plotting vengeance; if you fuck with them, they will absolutely fuck with you back. I learned the hard way because I naturally like to bother animals out of love and especially their God given talent to be so darn cute, it really is the eyes. In a nutshell, I was sliced on both cheeks by Bob, the in-house cat, at my local pet shop; won’t bore you over the details, but please know that Bob was very upset after his hissy fit towards me. When I was 17, I worked my first job at this pet shop. I was hired off the basis that my application was genuine and honest, and if admitting that I was locked up in the police station for getting drunk at the cinemas with friends while sitting through every screening movie off of one admission would lead me to land me my first job, then I was simply being rewarded for my behavior. God help me.
Summer vacations were always the best times to ingest Shitake shrooms. They help enhance the colors and vibrancy of nature and you can view life as a mural placed in a museum. I laughed so hard I think I produced extra seratonin and the inside of my cheeks bleed, because I purely enjoyed everything and anything those times.
But somehow behind the smile were a void, and I knew that, this type of freedom and happiness wouldn’t last very long.