Last night my belly was the lining of a wineskin. My world was a mandala of colors bleeding over each other, and my language proficiency was equivalent to that of a tree. Adult Jenga has adult perks (3x’s the adult perks) but also adult consequences and this morning my alarm assaulted my R.E.M. hard like the siege of Minas Tirith. With a hangover every whisper sounds like the screech of a nazgûl.
I had an appointment with my mother so I give her a call. Mexico is treating her well. My stepfather is in Tepoztlán walking the cobblestone street markets in search for perfect pomegranates so she’s using the time to reconnect with herself and advance her business. These clowns are living life.
Time to clean because you never clean up after yourself when you’re drunk. Wiping down dried beer stains and vacuuming up condom rappers and reorganizing furniture that moved for reasons both known and unknown. There’s a knock on the front door and I see a blur of nudity run for cover followed by two cats. Close the bedroom door, she yelps, and I oblige.
I go to answer the front door and my next-door neighbor greets me. This guy looks like he works for Cirque Du Soleil and models on the side and it’s because he does. His eyes scan the apartment for my girlfriend because I’m sure he forgot I live here too. Hey, I say. He looks at me and says he’s moving, so if we want some of his furniture it’s by the trash. He’ll just buy new stuff, I assume, because he makes money as an acrobat and model. Cool, thanks, and I shut the door.
I’m going to be bummed about him leaving. I only just found out about him and endless amounts of blog content he could’ve produced is an opportunity I lost far too swiftly. I need more content. Always more content. New experiences. New levels of emotion. I need to be traveling like my parents and the plan is already set in motion but these next few months are gonna require some hefty digging for more content.
Be prepared to read about disproportioned crème to coffee ratios.