Excerpt from my upcoming book “Blue Dreams, Galactic Somersaults”
Living makes me want to smoke cigarettes. Camels, in fact. Camel filter 99s, more matter of fact. These burn long, and if I take more than a puff each minute while letting the world pass beneath my nose, I lose my vision, they’re that dizzyingly intense.
Living also makes me want to exist in a semi inebriated state, one in which I exist peacefully between both worlds of being present in reality and the other, sinking into a dream space. If my mood swings too far to the left of the pendulum, I hunker back into the very moment I wanted to run from. However, should my mood swing too far to the right, I might start urinating myself and hitting on anything that moves.
I like to talk about the people who have killed themselves. Why not? I think it’s a privilege. They did not sign the final dot, and left pages whose words were smeared by splotches of coffee. It’s unfair. Really, these are the only kinds of stories I like to give happy endings to. So, let’s narrate one before I continue to narrate mine, which doesn’t end too nicely. It hurts when someone who created the best memories becomes a memory.
