[  Mood: Distorted ]
[  Currently: Playing soccer. ]
Saddam Hussein, Gerald Ford, Peter Boyle and James Brown. Men with so much in common. I’m next. THAT WAS INAPPROPRIATE. Oh, gah, forget it. The last line Hunter Thompson wrote was "This won’t hurt." I bet he was wrong. It must hurt like a super son of a bitch to blow your brain out. Like hitting your head on the corner of a half open cupboard times a thousand. And what if that’s your eternity? Before Islam, people in the middle east believed that you would be trapped in the last sensation you had when you were alive. Or maybe that was the Incans. Yeah, Persians believed your spirit would travel into a cave filled with dust and darkness with no silence, and you’d have to wait patiently until the end of time without anything to do or anyone to talk to. I’d prefer feeling like the cupboard thing, because holy crap, do I get bored easily. Its my entire generation. The news has to come at me from eight different directions with a bunch of whooshy sounds and gongs and ominous warnings of the immediate future to keep my attention, and even then, I’m like, "Ohhhhhhhh, tort reform! Fuck that, time to play Far Cry!" And then there goes my two liter of Sprite flying at the screen. I don’t understand the silent "gh" sound. "Ghost" is okay be me, I don’t care. But "lighter"? Whiskey tango foxtrot? I need that on a sound board for when I make phone calls. That and a bunch of Schwarzenegger sound bites. "I’M A COP, YOU IDIOT!" should be my entire answering machine message. I have no idea to access my messages, so it doesn’t matter. Its all the luck of the draw. It’s 5:30 in the morning, I’m back from New Year’s, good times. I’m worried that if I sleep now, I will pee. I am waiting for the alcohol to go through my system before I sleep, so that I have nothing to worry about when I wake up. It just hit me before I started all this. So very recent, so painful. I’m not waking up tomorrow. That dark cave of dust and silence thing sounds pretty good now that I’m anticipating a hang over. I tried that Kahlua stuff tonight – bleh. Five percent alcohol. That’s what my mother’s breast milk was when I was nursing. I also hate that commercial for Bacardi mojitos, because I do enjoy Bacardis, but don’t tell me that the people who drink it have great butts and dress nicely. That’s a damn lie. It’s basically Sprite. Dangerous stuff, you don’t feel shit until you’re on the hotel room floor, waiting to get to sleep. I did that in Vegas, went to sleep drunk, woke up drunk. Never want to do that again. Gotta maintain. I maintain. I have only rarely blown chunks, maybe two or three times in my life. First time I ever got drunk, I was in Tijuana with some friends. Finished a bottle of Tequila by myself, and was hallucinating and freaking out. I thought that I was a Mexican Buddhist monk, and it was my job to help the spirit of the worm at the end of the bottle to transcend into the wheel of life and be reincarnated. BUT I ONLY KNEW TWO YEARS OF HIGH SCHOOL SPANISH. I didn’t mean to yell, sorry. But the worm didn’t know english. He was Mexican. Most of the Mexicans in the U.S. don’t even speak English. What social resources do we have invested in to help Mexican tequila worms learn english? Particularly the disembodied souls of those trapped in a centimeter thick glass bottle? I don’t drink tequila any more.