Dear Cruel World,
I’m reporting to you hot off the pot. I just released a nice steady flow and I feel like a new man. I’ve also come to realize that this blog is mostly shit. I mean, it’s mostly stories about shit. But that’s ok.
So regarding new years. I must first make a correction to a previous post, where I said I was going to NYC. I lied. My plans changed, as they often do, and I ended up partying in Boston with some jolly good chaps from the high school era. Being the premature ejaculator that I am, I arrived at the scene before anyone else, including the bitch with the keys to the apartment (and by that bitch I mean the most honorable La’shadee-druh Laprincess Sh’Destiny Ebony Precious Chanel.) So in the four or five hour interim I trekked around the streets of Boston during a blizzard wearing only a light jacket, jeans and converse sneakers. Needless to say, my thumbs went weird. The only good thing was that diarrhea was virtually impossible, because matter in a liquid state simply could not exist at those temperatures. It would have been more like a fudgsicle. But all was made up for when I acquired two steel reserve 40s for five bucks. And let’s be real, the equation of life reads like this: 2 steel reserves = shitshow. It was the first shitshow of 2009.
Per usual, I can only remember snippets. Like making out with a manikin head that had a convenient quarter-sized hole at the base of its neck. Peeing in an empty forty and handing it off to someone who may or may not have mistaken the contents for malt liquor. The Jonas Brothers. Searching for an open McDon’s at 1am in a town that closes at 8. Cold. Singing that catchy new years anthem over and over until people started throwing things at us and calling us dirty names like “skanks,” and “whores,” and “ghetto-ass bitches from dirty Baltimore” (per usual.) A woman, waking up from a cracked-out, unconscious state, screaming like mad and ripping off all her clothes. Cold. Someone’s diabetic insulin pump beeping like a fucked clock. Those weird new Camels that have a ball in them that you crush to make it a menthol. A man who was most certainly a vampire, who appeared out of nowhere to tuck us into our various places of sleep and at the cracked hour of 6 am was pacing the hallway, contemplating the rising of the sun. And finally, a blue snuggie (yes, the fleece blanket from that tv commercial that has sleeves so that you can pet your dog and wear a blanket simultaneously).
When I woke up I was sticky and lying on a pile of dirty clothes, halfway inside a closet and halfway under a bed. I got up to pee and felt the thick cloud of beer gas occupying my innards lurch around and make for the emergency exit. But I wouldn’t let it escape without a fight. I don’t think I actually let it go until we stopped at a McDon’s during the 8-hour car ride home, where I massacred their bathroom, coincidentally or not-so-coincidentally making the curly Mexican employee put up a cardboard sign over the door that said “out of order.” The fucker will RUE the day! I then decided to make it my mission to sabotage all the porcelains at all the rest stops on I-95. On the way up I hit two (one at a travel plaza and one at a Starbucks) and on the way back I hit the one at McDon’s, so I reckon I only have a couple more to mark with my sweet pudding. Do not be at all surprised, dear reader, if the next time you set foot into the classy, pube-laden bathrooms of the most highly trafficked vein of the eastern seaboard, you see my face on a wanted sign under a caption that reads: MASSIVE SHITTER. Yeah, you know that guy.
And, yes, my new years kiss was an androgynous manikin head. It’s gunna be a good year.