Something I've been working on... call it my Hunter S. Thompson homage:
FEAR AND LOATING IN 2004.
I was looking for something in the kitchen when I realized that the drugs had hit me. Some people don’t count alcohol as a drug, but it certainly works like a drug in my terms. And that’s what we were on, my terms. The goal of the evening was to forget. Forget the future. Forget the past. Forget everything that it was possible to forget. I had even forgotten why I was in the kitchen. Never again did we want to face the harsh realities of our world in this, the foul year of our lord, 2004.
“What was I looking for?” I asked suddenly, surprised to hear my own voice, loud and booming, speaking without permission from my brain.
“What?” Mumbled replies came from the room beyond. I could place all of them to faces. Faces I had seen before. Faces I had forgotten each night and been forced to recall each morning, recovering on a couch.
Sean had been my friend for going on two years. He was an Iranian, half-Jewish, not that it mattered to any of us. Tonight we could forget about who we were and who we were trying to be. Tonight we could be whomever we wanted. I could hear his soft voice telling a gruesome story from the other room. In my mind I pictured his smile during pauses and his lit up eyes, enjoying the sight of his grossed-out friend.
Kris and I knew little of each other before that semester. His friendship seemed to sneak up on me as days and weeks blurred by like some kind of poisonous insect that you don’t see before it’s too late. Before I knew it, he was always there. He became a part of our group. “What the hell are you doing in there, Zac??” Sean’s voice cut through my inner-monologue and reminded me a little of reality. Quickly pouring a glass of water, I remembered why I had been in the kitchen. Thirst. The waves of thirst had flooded my body in surges after each round of the drugs. I had worked hard for this water. I deserved it.
We had started the evening with weed. Marijuana used to be a social drug, but it was fast becoming our social necessity. I suppose people considered us potheads, but I take exception to that. We would try almost anything. We didn’t discriminate with our intoxicants and limit our mind-expanding to just weed. Everyone had their own personal limits and for us, we were certainly willing to do more for a high.
The initial weed high had worn off hours before, only to be replaced with pint after pint of another social drug—beer. Beer is delicious to a stoned person. The way it touches the lips with a moistening, yeasty flavor makes the chugging easier to a dry-mouthed Marley listener. It rested gently in my stomach on top of the greasy $2.50 “.99”-pizza with the new sips of water. Somewhere in the back of my mind I suppressed the thought: “How long can I keep this up? How long can I do this to myself?” It’s simple logic. The human body is made to withstand a moderate amount of poison, either in one large dose or many smaller doses over the years. I was already fast approaching my third or fourth year of steady pollution. To put it bluntly, the temple that is my body was burning fast to the ground. All the holy water in the world couldn’t stop my smoldering ruin, or even wash away the ignorant graffiti, now. This temple was fucked.
It goes on.... but this part I'm comfortable with...
umm, I like the honesty, but don't take this too seriously as fact... it's written as embellished fiction. When I write, I tend to get into a mood and beat it to death. Even (especially?) if it's not the truth.
