A lazy blue haze hangs in the air. Smells like an Indian temple in here. I'd never been to India, but I've eaten a lot of curry. Smells of tamarind and cumin play inside my mind before last night's good idea pulls me back to reality. My chest pressed against the cold concrete floor, odours of urine, garbage and stale beer. How did I end up on the floor today, and what time is it?
Mashed potatoes and gravy, these go together like Yaletown and pug shit. A flash of old memory percolates through my substance-mangled mind, a hand extending out, in its grip a steaming dish of food.
“Would you like some yam, Dylen?”
“Yes, please,”
The dish is pretty hot, better put it down. Careful now, you know how these fancy people eat, utensils, no talking, elbows off the table. Sit up straight. I did everything like I was supposed to up until this point, serving myself and then passing the food around the table. The first mistake was taking that bite of hot sweet potato, my greedy stomach should have waited. It burns my tongue causing me to slurp in cold air, choosing to convulse in my seat rather than spitting it onto the table. To think, just a few hours ago I was licking my girlfriend's asshole on the floor of her living room, half of her family was 10 feet away watching the hockey game highlights in the other room. What an asshole. I guess I am what I eat. A pinch on my arm lit up my face, saying grace should be done before anyone eats, I'm reminded. Hope they don't think this is rude and all, drinking my entire glass of wine to soothe seared taste buds.
Twenty minutes. I've been on the fucking floor for twenty minutes. My whole life I haven't been able to sit still for this long, and now I can't even move. Wish there was a pillow under my head right now, or breasts. Speaking of girl parts, there’s some soft snoring somewhere behind me. Not the baritone snore of a fellow, but the slow, rhythmic sighing of a petite female. The lady from the night before is the tramp on my couch this morning. Flaps on the table, whose cocaine was it anyways? Did I buy it in a haze again? Lying to myself wasn’t just a good idea anymore, but more of a habit. I thought I promised myself that I wouldn't be involved with that shit, guess when the liquor is flowing like a hemophiliac on her rag, excuses become wingmen.
Sitting up wasn't such a good idea. The world is dancing under me and I can't see straight. The floor will quickly become my destination again should these sea legs try and stand up. Come on man, one hand, other foot, now another hand, another foot. We spend such a small amount of time crawling as children, and again as alcoholics. Her hazel eyes remind me of Kentucky bourbon after a few cubes melted in a tumbler. I wonder if she has a tumblr. Did we meet last night? Fuck this. The whole room is spinning, that’s never good in an open concept loft. It's not possible to stare at anything for too long without a rolling ocean wave throwing my eyes off. There are shiny floors for light to play tricks on, high ceilings for that vertigo, no soft carpet to land on. My skin's sweaty in the way a smokie sausage blisters over flame. Something's coming up, fuck.
Retching is never fun. That first gag hits your mind like the phrase “We need to talk,” or “Have a seat over there.” Posting up on one arm, never thought a little jiu jitsu would help me make it to a toilet to puke faster. Throw my feet under me, go! The wet smacking sound of clumsy meat hitting concrete, my mind went silent for a few nervous steps. Almost, almost, just a couple more steps. With the precise timing of herpes sores before a first date, gravity acts up to throw me shoulder-first into the bathroom sink.
Back on the floor and in worse shape, my foot stings, warmth. My piggies wiggle to see if they're all still there. Hot moist grime between the toes and my heel sticks to the floor. A curious eye flutters open, my world now reminds me of barbed wire kisses and bear spray hugs, a burning kaleidoscope of nausea and pain. My body is a pile of old scars. A rough beating heart quakes inside my chest while head on car crashes pile up endlessly between my ears. The rough texture of tile floor pressed into skin, a stale burp smell of drain pipe wafts near my face. I must have pin-balled off the sink and fallen into the shower. The rim around the base that holds in the water is now firmly planted in my lower ribs. Reaching up, probing fingers find the shower handle. My ribs hurting so much, maybe this is what Jesus felt like, minus the hangover.
The cold blast of water, thank you. Ah, feels good. I guess it is times like these that remind me I'm still alive. Blink. Blink. Still stings. Tile floor grinds into my hip rolling from my right side onto my back, the jet spray of the shower hitting me directly in the face. My eyes get a caring wipe clear of bits and grease finds its way to slick my fingertips. Chunks in my hair, those aren't supposed to be there. Finally able to see, I glance at my foot and it's got a nice crescent moon shaped gash between the little toe and 4th toe. Ugly feet are usually the colour of peanut butter gone bad. Through the blur of steam, my bashed up foot reminds me of strawberry jam with five fat larva doing headstands. My eyes focus on the floor next to the shower, an orange donut shaped puddle of vomit. Did I fall, hit my head, and projectile vomit straight up and somehow not choke to death? At least rockstars die like that. I can't even die with the style I like these days.
Hung over souls find soothing comfort in nursing envelopes of warm water. Happy and warm liquid runs across my body in a hug that doubles as a handy wipe. I gag and barf on myself a few more times, half-digested food doesn't even have a chance to say “Hey, you ate me”, before swirling into the abyss. I wonder if my organs are having a meeting inside of me right now, all huddled around the liver, asking it just what the fuck happened. The punch drunk stomach screams “Fuck YOU guys!” through bloody lips as he storms out of the meeting. My lips are numb. Must be the nasally ejected vomit mixing with last night's devil’s dandruff.
There is not a lot to do when you're in a shower, retching. At least now it's just gagging and not actually throwing anything up. A chunk is stuck in my chest hair. My arms feel too heavy to lift, so to dislodge it I move more into the water jets. A small, grey cube, maybe it was meat. Who knows how much effort the farmer put into his crops, how much gas and oil went into transporting the raw ingredients. The chef who prepared it put effort into making it taste good, all to be doomed to reside in my chest hair, like some sort of half-digested vagrant. The piece tumbles and slides down into what's left of my pubes. Groin dressing is usually kept trim to avoid a 70’s pornstar look. Lately I've been running low on fucks to give, so it looks more like what I imagine the deathly hollows to resemble. Twisted, mangled, struggling for purpose. Vomit is stuck in my pubes. Well, I guess that's as good of a place as any, not like it belongs inside my stomach right now anyways.
After what seems to be an eternity of counting tiles and inspecting my genitals for signs of sex barnacles, the water loses its appeal. Being alive but looking dead, my fingers are as wrinkled as a set of long, plump prunes. With a twist of the handle, my sanctuary from reality thrusts me back into the thick of the shit. Water drips from the showerhead while a shivering cold, nude and wet me looks for a towel. The floor is soaked with water, mixed with vomit and blood, a Van Gogh with smeared oranges and reds. Today I learned a crack in the concrete floor dressed up in bodily fluids can resemble an oak tree in fall.
Steady now, no repeats Dylen. At this point if I fall again, I might as well just stay down and try again tomorrow. No time for that though, what's this girl's name anyways? A delicate pink purse lounges on my purple couch, doing its best impression of a rectangular breast with a swollen pink nipple. Grabbing a towel to dry myself off, putting a half-assed effort in gets a quarter-assed result out; my first steps are soggier than when I was in the shower. Barely dry and shivering still, I try my luck resting on the ottoman while waiting for fresh hints of nausea to pass. My nose is busy smelling nothing but sniffles while my curious eyes spy popcorn and a bra on the floor here. Lacey. Nice. The purse is already yawning wide open, if it’s good for the dentist it might get a lollipop. Papers, tampon, lipstick, pepper spray, panties. Panties? Panties. License, check. She's Katelynn, born in 1988. She's got the face of an angel, pure, happy, relaxed. Flashbacks of going to church youth group and time spent fingerbanging curious good girls behind the gardener's shed.
My legs push the earth down and shuffle me to my computer. My addiction to the internet took root a long time ago. At the speed of light and through phone cable, you can make connections that you'll never make in the meat world. Shaky hands poke a switch on the monitor. The brilliant white of Facebook's background blinds me for a moment. My mind conjures up an image of the crew of the Enola Gay, somber and quiet on the flight home. Fucking 3 likes. I uploaded a photo of my urine stream at some bar again.
I rip the mouse down to the Taskbar, it lazily slides up to give me a peek at the time. Fuck you windows, I think. It's 3 PM. She's asleep and it's 3 PM. With both elbows on the table, my mind drifts back to the yam-thermite experience. I could go for some gravy. Nothing cures a hangover like some grease. The back of my head has a nice goose egg. I'd ice it, but I probably used the ice for drinks. The last time I used a frozen bag of peas, the bag had a hole which lead to a fruit fly apocalypse for weeks. Maybe someone should have swept them up. Maybe, but I didn't care. A gentleman would have already found out how Kate's doing, but status updates are more important.
My studio is a long, open rectangle, separated by set of curtains in the middle. Brilliant gold light from afternoon sun shines down on the exposed brick walls. Today it reminds me of dirty piss, an overcast grumpy sky through a bottle of corona. Stepping through the archway from the business section to the pleasure dome, Kate is slumbering away. Her dark, thick hair draped over the side of the pillow like moss. Her eyes are half open as she sleeps, a drug slug-trail peeking out from her lower nostril. Moving deftly to avoid disturbing the sleeping beauty, quiet feet tip toe the long way around my steel cube coffee table. Post it notes litter the cube as evidence of prior floor-bound hangovers, messages from spirits of parties gone by.
An older man wearing only a towel approaches a younger girl asleep on a couch. Where have I seen this scenario before? A blanket mostly covers her, my towel barely covers me. Moving to sit down, taking care to lift her feet slowly and place them on my knees. The leather of the couch is soft and warm. Her feet must have been stretched out earlier. Maybe she's cold now? Gently tucking the blanket in around her, an approving soft sigh escapes her throat. Her face is lily white, cheeks of rose. Faded mascara leaving a bluish tinge around her eye sockets, the same hue as toilet puck a few flushes from dissolving. Caring instincts brush loose strands of hair out of her face, neatly tucking them behind her petite ear. For a moment those same feelings picture her and I together, a girl I didn't even remember the name of mere minutes ago. Now those same feelings asking myself, how could I forget?
Remembering a girl’s name shouldn’t be hard. Forgetting and letting go wasn't always as easy. I grew up watching my grandparents in love. A Pepe LePew cartoon where the cat loved him back just as much. A couple that stuck by each other for fifty years and walked into the final sunset together. If their path was walked with a tangerine sunset at their backs, mine is with a fluorescent light coming at me from every direction. Does the stallion ever miss a mare after his owner studs him out? A caged mouse with white coated friends, you learn pretty quickly that the lever will always bring another slice of cheese. A curious pink little rat face, a phalanx of white whiskers on each side and a twitching nose hunting for more. The squeaking little guy gets his fill over and over, never appreciating the acquisition of another meal. The next is just a pink paw press away. Now this rat has had its fill and is satiated for the time being. My cage is littered with unfettered indulgence.
The smell of her wafts into my nose, somehow having fought its way through the snot and blood protesting last night’s cocaine use. Lavender and Du Maurier accompanies sweat and musk, a bouquet of both of us. She rolls her head over and cracks a slow crooked smile. "Morning" floats melodically out of her dry pair of parallel dead worms. Her tongue stabs away at saliva dried on the corner of her mouth while another lick brings the look of life back to her lips. She's chipper for someone with beard burn down her neck. She turns over slowly and the blanket lifts up for a moment, my eyes feast on her budding left breast. 3 AM and I would have that little pink nipple in my mouth, 3 PM and I want it to be in a taxi out of here.
Her wet whiskey tinted eyes close as she stretches her legs out across my own. The back of her knees brush against my raw cock. I feel less like a person and more of an animal of pleasure. My right hand moves to the blanket and rests on her upper thigh. She pulls out her right hand and puts it over my own.
"I don't... usually I am not the kind of girl that leaves with a guy!" Katelynn says with a giggle.
"I am going to catch so much shit from Josh!"
"Who's Josh?" I hope she didn't hear the hesitation in my voice.
"My manager, he cut you off last night remember?"
"Yeah" I grunt, nodding.
She sits up, her heel brushes my tender foreskin with the subtlety of flaming steel wool. Letting out a loud snot sucking sniffle as she throws her hair back, the blanket falls down to her waist.
"That shit wasn't too speedy, I liked it." She ties her hair back in a braid. More festive sniffles cut the silence.
Empty flaps on the table remind me of party origami. It's nearly 4 AM, or how I know it as 2nd delivery hour. We're naked and sweating, the fucking paused briefly to make like urban anteaters. An old gym membership card is used to crush the rocks up, a fine whitish yellow. I hate when it's humid and begins to stick together too much. Fuck, just need this in my fucking nose so I can get back to fucking her doggystyle. Did you know the heart shape originally came from what a woman looks like bent over forwards? Now you do.
A quiet ruffle as the blanket hits the floor, my eyes focusing back onto reality. A lithe ivory body displayed fully as she stands up to stretch, my last glance at her swollen pink labia sends lust up my spine. A little variety would be nice, she's just another girl who waxes it all off. Thongs always make the same snap when they're pulled up. She takes her blackberry and strolls off in the direction of my bathroom.
Katelynn fumbles around looking to illuminate the can. "Which switch for the light again?"
I think middle with each distant click. She finds it herself and closes the door.
A solitary soldier rests on its side. The noble 26 ounce bottle of tequila, what I refer to as a twixer, rests with only a shot or two left. The glass feels slippery and cold in my clammy hands. I tilt it back, drink the last shot, and put it upright on the table. It’s important to show respect for the poison, saluting the empty bottle with my free hand while warm fumes of alcohol pour from my nose. Cracking and popping noises in my sinuses, my nose protesting last night's uphill skiing championship. When liquor enters my stomach it usually acts like Norm just walked into Cheers, every ulcer happily greeting it. This time the angry gut is less welcoming than a gay couple at a Taliban garage sale. The next five minutes is spent making promises in my head to not drink anymore today if the stomach agrees not to throw up. We make peace mentally, kiss and make up.
Normality isn't normally around here, and while normally I wouldn't just smoke first thing in the morning, it is neither morning, nor normal. I sit by one of the only two windows of the studio. Flick. Bubble and breathe. A deep inhale, a seagull cries out. I wonder if seagulls prefer one type of French fry to another. I certainly do prefer McDonald's fries to most others. Golden grease sticks with the power to magically cure nearly every ailment. Try having a chocolate shake and French fries and being mad. You can't. Clown food is made to comfort. This bong sticks my worries onto the wings of a gull and carries them away from Cordova Street. Maybe later that gull will shit my worries out on some unsuspecting tool riding their bike on the seawall. Sharp echoes of an angry voice mixes with hard wheels of a shopping cart pushed down the alley. I wish I could give that poor cart a toke, I can't imagine how it's been treated.
A flush and a door opening signals the return of my visitor, her skin looks creamy under bathroom spotlights.
"Shit! Why didn't you fucking say it was nearly 4!" Katelynn bellows while putting her hair up.
"I told you I had to be at my parent's for this afternoon, I fucking told you!"
Tiny girl feet make more noise than they should across the concrete. She bends over to pick up her skirt, bra and t-shirt. Right now my eyes love the way her breasts hang there, a solid C cup. A dirty mind drift is recalling her riding me, grabbing her breasts and licking both of her nipples together. My back arched as much as it can, hips tensed forward to be deep inside her. Her sweet soft moans when I hit the top of her cervix.
"My earrings, where are my earrings?” Katelynn says with a growl, her little feet dragging her in circles around the studio.
“I can't find the other fucking hoop!”
"Dylen... Hello?"
I wish I could have told her honestly that I didn't hear her. I hate to lie, but I did anyways.
My bathroom mirror could probably tell you it's seen this before. A crisis of dressing to put on a face fit for the public. She never did find the other hoop. The door closed with a dull thud. Sober brain can't remember swapping numbers with her, and my phone has no records of her name. What I do possess is twenty unchecked voicemails dating back two months, six Facebook updates, and eight texts from other people. Sorry. Details get lost in the cadence of my life, what would we do now anyways, date?
The rest of Saturday is spent surfing the internet and playing video games. An uneasy future eclipses any relaxation when reading how gold hits $2,000 US an ounce. I don’t really know what affect that will have on my life, but it sucks anyways. The wealth gap between rich and poor is higher than during the great depression, putting me now into depression. Cat pictures, fucking cat pictures. Reddit made me hate cat pictures. I download some mods for a game that allow me to replace the face textures of some characters.
Sometimes I think Skyrim was designed by aliens as a human hamster wheel. It takes me two hours to get it to work properly after thinking my video card's memory was full, but it was just a version conflict. Finally the game starts and I'm eager to forget this morning.
My finger presses extra hard on the keyboard to move myself through the virtual world. The anticipation has me focused like a Zen Master trying to catch a fly with chopsticks. I move around the wall of a castle represented by pixels on a glowing rectangle. This is my life, sighing to myself in my head. My excitement drops once I find the characters with facial textures replaced. Ugly noses too big to look real, the ears don't line up right. I don't even hit escape, I just alt-tab and right click and close the game. Bed.
I'm drunk! I apologize for any formatting mistakes, copied and pasted from Word. Italics for flashbacks are missing, too lazy to put them in. Sorry!
