INSIDE Part ONE

INSIDE Part ONE

It’s 3:42 am. Shit. Waking up from that recurring dream about getting shot twice in the stomach, I still hate cops. I need to grab a glass of water; my throat is collapsing on itself. I need to clean this room; it’s near impossible to get to the fucking bathroom without stepping on a lone shoe and almost breaking an ankle. I shouldn’t drink so much. This water is magic.. I can feel it washing out the layer of alcohol coating the inside of my throat. I shouldn’t have passed out with that bottle in my hand. What would my mother think if she saw this? “Honey, you need to wear underwear when you sleep, who knows when a fire might wake you up in the middle of the night.” That’s disgusting. Fuck gin. I need a better bed frame. My back feels like those moldable Gumby toys with the wire frame, twisted around and stuck-- head and upper torso facing backwards. I hope I don’t have that stupid fucking dream again.

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“But what if you’re wrong? What if Jesus is the only way to heaven?”

“What?” I haven’t been listening to her. If I get involved in this I will hate myself, I won’t be friends with me anymore. I will cut ties with myself if I get involved in one more goddamn--

“Are you listening to me?”

“Sorry, yeah…wait. Jesus?”

“I said what if you are wrong? What if Jesus is the only salvation?”

“I dunno. I will go to hell I guess.”

“You guess?”

I don’t even believe in hell. I should just tell her that. I should be honest. I should--

“Forget it. It’s boring right? I am boring you.”

“No. No. I’m sorry.” Why am I apologizing? “You aren’t boring, it’s just that I have this discussion a lot.”

“Oh. I’m sorry.”

“It isn’t your fault. So, what are you ordering?”

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How did I get drunk? Am I drunk? I’m drunk. What did I drink…one…three... fuck. You aren’t supposed to keep count, what did Roger say, something about if you keep count you shouldn’t be drinking, or you should be drinking. Where is Roger? I need to know. That’s going to bother me. Is that that girl from Blockbuster? I think she saw me renting Couples Retreat. Dammit. Vince Vaughn is funny, god that’s embarrassing. Where the fuck is Roger?

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“So what you are saying is that Tarantino, the master of modern cinema, would just let something like that slip through the cracks?”

“Did you just say the master of modern cinema?”

“Who else even comes close?”

“You are fucking idiotic my friend, completely delusional in your Tarantino fetish love. Paul Thomas Anderson, you fucking ass-clown.”

What is this conversation? This is my life? It boils down to arguments about completely subjective topics? How did this happen?

“Duuude. Don’t get me started on the Coen Brothers.”

Give me a car crash, water boarding, eaten by a shark. But if I die in the middle of this conversation, that will be my fucking nightmare.

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What did Andrea say last night? Something about Sartre? No. Descartes? It was interesting. Andrea always has something stimulating to contribute. I should date a smart girl. What time is it? Jeopardy is almost on. I should check and see if Clayton wants to get high. Andrea held my hand last night. She said it was a joke. She said it was her idea of dark humor. I laughed and said “good one”. Fucking “good one”. I love dark humor. So was that ironic? I am always hesitant when dealing with irony. It probably wasn’t irony. I need to remember not to wear that blue collared shirt when I see her again. I’ve been wearing it both times that I ran into her.

I do like myself. I do. I just seem to be underachieving lately. I should write something.