Member-only story
Excerpt from my upcoming book “Blue Dreams, Galactic Somersaults”
Yes, I really am sharing a work in progress, first draft.
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.
