my hair is wet. again. the crotch and ass of my pants clinging to, well, my crotch and my ass. brief panic for the whereabouts of my glasses and suddenly...suddenly i realize they are shoved to the toe of one of my shoes. why? did i think someone was going to swipe them? a theif with the same prescription as me wandering into the living room at four in the morning, "Oh shit! just what i was looking for!" good hiding place, asshole. theres the smell of stale whiskey and i cough loud enough to startle nick on the adjacent sofa, in nothing but his guitar pick boxer shorts. he is sprawled out like a golden retriever, lanky arms hanging off the sofa cushion, fingertips scraping the carpet's surface. wiping the high out of my eyes i sit hunched over, smiling.
what a place this is. what a goddamn loony bin. a wacky sanitarium for crissed-crossed paths and bumbling patients sputtering out life stories and recollections of acid trips. lawn chairs that should be roped off and condemned are scattered about like mines or trap doors. the kitchen is the central nervous system, the dispensary of drunkenness.
shuffling to the bathroom i wonder if i am the first person up, or the last. or if those terms mean shit in this parallel circus. the mirror tells me that last night was good to me.
i like it here.