You don't want to mix emotions up with a wine like that. You lose the taste.
The night, or at least the series of nights, leading up to my rise to fame, fortune, and riches beyond all preconceived notions and my sudden descend into the depths and engorged trenches of this underbelly of western thought can be traced back to one single occasion. I remember a distinct feeling of freedom, a feeling like the unsuppressed minds of we, the youth, were for once winning and just. The end would invariably institute crucial and precise change of not only the heads and patrons of the state, but reform the entire societal scheme of our land and nation.
I recall the clamoring of hands and guards, militias and military juntas, and the exact moment that our vision was freed from obscurity, that victory was nigh, but a sudden taste and numbing sensation caused a wave of memories I chose to disregard. Off-occasions of moments and years spent, passed, wasted, but was it of any value? Maybe I was a fool and maybe in the end I would receive my just reward or retribution. Maybe my rotting flesh would be used in United Nations calculations in how to discern the logistics of foreign policy. Maybe I would lay locked in a window-less prison in sub-Saharan prowess.
I chose not to follow that pathway, and continued to enjoy the sweet ambrosia that has become the crutch for which reality holds itself. It was all of us in what seemed to be the last moment before the mechanisms in a machine we had no control over would invariably thrust themselves forward, causing this unsavory dynamo to spiral out of control and into sheer madness only to test the punctuality of the corporation in a dying moment of panic. The only right and logical choice was to turn our backs on this so-called civil structure we had been forced into bondage. What we needed was escapism in its most raw and primitive form.
The primordial vial provided us with a method and an action but when all was over I was no more than a lonely foolish belligerent lacking sufficient sustenance. Sleep was the only option, so sleep it was.
With an awaking as cold as Symbionese pride, I regained consciousness, or at least what bore a rather distinct similarity to consciousness, in a symbol of American inefficiency heading to a trenchtown just outside capital city. Conversations came and went, bigotry, iron curtains, and castanets, with its culmination in a cheap and slightly off-tasting cup of coffee from the face of Il Duce Bush himself, smiling as he discretely and violently rips open and rapes your unsuspecting rectum.
I had no idea what would happen next, but was abandoned by my mildly-benign triangular trading partner in the seas of the Midwest. Idling around yet another town ravaged by outsourcing, bureaucratic greed, and western affluency, I at least cherished the opportunity to extract from my fascist and national socialist comrade a situation and a moment shared in the slightly remodeled kitchen of a college-boy-turned-right-wing zealot over what two years ago caused me to require bypass surgery.
But before being disregarded again like the carcass of a small rodent painted across its concrete canvas, I was handed my constitutional right. Two and seven-eighths inches. Enough inches to tear the lymph nodes, thyroids, pons, pituitary, liver, ovary or pancreas from any cunt wise enough to spurn the neurotic and anxious lashings of a frail hundred-twenty-pound suburbanite.
Time couldn't fly fast enough, nor could I as I booked passage across the great divide between tax breaks and integral feats of lurid originality. Though slumber seemed beneficial, el tren couldn't have been more marked by the manifestation of God himself, mocking and taunting remorselessly about what I could have, had the indelible ink not stained these calloused fingertips.
Delays and mainstays. The underground metro system reeked of axle grease and cheap factory emissions. In my hurried dash to find anyone with whom I could lay low from the authorities, I came across a bartendress. After a cab with an Indian-Muslim and hearing his stories of work and immigration, we found ourselves in the snug environment of this Yerevanesque hookah bar. She quickly left to go about her job, so I found myself a myriad of bystanders to share this generic small-talk we as caring citizens pride ourselves on. An Indian born in Brazil named Pranay with a distinct mole on the left-side of his nose and a fluency in four languages; a rather-attractive Russian through Lithuania named Ksenia who had more glasses of wine than she originally cared for; an Armenian named Roupan with a particular distrust of the Wall Street Journal; a Mexican named Armando y su sobrino Gustavo, both of whom were too busy bebiendo cervesas y trabajando para complacer el público. Kebabs and hookah smoke left me feeling somewhat, dare I say, complacent and comfortable in this Armenian pub.
In my last moments of supposed sobriety, the precursor to that torpid feeling that seems to benumb me within each forty-eight hour interval, I saw myself in the fifteenth floor of an East Chicago loft, over one of the most bustling and populous urban complexes I had the pleasure of coming across, looking outward at a moment of what could be called beautiful, before my partially-inebriated mind fell into the comforting arms of dyed cotton and modular enterprise.
I recall the clamoring of hands and guards, militias and military juntas, and the exact moment that our vision was freed from obscurity, that victory was nigh, but a sudden taste and numbing sensation caused a wave of memories I chose to disregard. Off-occasions of moments and years spent, passed, wasted, but was it of any value? Maybe I was a fool and maybe in the end I would receive my just reward or retribution. Maybe my rotting flesh would be used in United Nations calculations in how to discern the logistics of foreign policy. Maybe I would lay locked in a window-less prison in sub-Saharan prowess.
I chose not to follow that pathway, and continued to enjoy the sweet ambrosia that has become the crutch for which reality holds itself. It was all of us in what seemed to be the last moment before the mechanisms in a machine we had no control over would invariably thrust themselves forward, causing this unsavory dynamo to spiral out of control and into sheer madness only to test the punctuality of the corporation in a dying moment of panic. The only right and logical choice was to turn our backs on this so-called civil structure we had been forced into bondage. What we needed was escapism in its most raw and primitive form.
The primordial vial provided us with a method and an action but when all was over I was no more than a lonely foolish belligerent lacking sufficient sustenance. Sleep was the only option, so sleep it was.
With an awaking as cold as Symbionese pride, I regained consciousness, or at least what bore a rather distinct similarity to consciousness, in a symbol of American inefficiency heading to a trenchtown just outside capital city. Conversations came and went, bigotry, iron curtains, and castanets, with its culmination in a cheap and slightly off-tasting cup of coffee from the face of Il Duce Bush himself, smiling as he discretely and violently rips open and rapes your unsuspecting rectum.
I had no idea what would happen next, but was abandoned by my mildly-benign triangular trading partner in the seas of the Midwest. Idling around yet another town ravaged by outsourcing, bureaucratic greed, and western affluency, I at least cherished the opportunity to extract from my fascist and national socialist comrade a situation and a moment shared in the slightly remodeled kitchen of a college-boy-turned-right-wing zealot over what two years ago caused me to require bypass surgery.
But before being disregarded again like the carcass of a small rodent painted across its concrete canvas, I was handed my constitutional right. Two and seven-eighths inches. Enough inches to tear the lymph nodes, thyroids, pons, pituitary, liver, ovary or pancreas from any cunt wise enough to spurn the neurotic and anxious lashings of a frail hundred-twenty-pound suburbanite.
Time couldn't fly fast enough, nor could I as I booked passage across the great divide between tax breaks and integral feats of lurid originality. Though slumber seemed beneficial, el tren couldn't have been more marked by the manifestation of God himself, mocking and taunting remorselessly about what I could have, had the indelible ink not stained these calloused fingertips.
Delays and mainstays. The underground metro system reeked of axle grease and cheap factory emissions. In my hurried dash to find anyone with whom I could lay low from the authorities, I came across a bartendress. After a cab with an Indian-Muslim and hearing his stories of work and immigration, we found ourselves in the snug environment of this Yerevanesque hookah bar. She quickly left to go about her job, so I found myself a myriad of bystanders to share this generic small-talk we as caring citizens pride ourselves on. An Indian born in Brazil named Pranay with a distinct mole on the left-side of his nose and a fluency in four languages; a rather-attractive Russian through Lithuania named Ksenia who had more glasses of wine than she originally cared for; an Armenian named Roupan with a particular distrust of the Wall Street Journal; a Mexican named Armando y su sobrino Gustavo, both of whom were too busy bebiendo cervesas y trabajando para complacer el público. Kebabs and hookah smoke left me feeling somewhat, dare I say, complacent and comfortable in this Armenian pub.
In my last moments of supposed sobriety, the precursor to that torpid feeling that seems to benumb me within each forty-eight hour interval, I saw myself in the fifteenth floor of an East Chicago loft, over one of the most bustling and populous urban complexes I had the pleasure of coming across, looking outward at a moment of what could be called beautiful, before my partially-inebriated mind fell into the comforting arms of dyed cotton and modular enterprise.