alex trebec doesn't have a moustache anymore |
2002-10-07 - 10:30 p.m.
what to say? what to say?
sharp turns and guardrails blocking the dropoffs. looking for his apartment. number 27. we don't stay long before rushed out and into her car. he tells us to go and he screams out directions over the music.
i didn't know where it was we ended up and i've lived in that part of town my entire life. i was scared and didn't want to go into this building covered with spraypaint. as soon as he had coaxed us into the door, a bat flies at our heads. [no, i didn't poop] so we finally go in - not able to see a thing except for what our measly little lighters illuminate - and up the steps. the roof of this place is full of holes. there are rails and we situate ourselves so that we're not going to fall off.
it is passed around in a purple metal thing. it got so hot that i burned my finger. after a few turns, i started talking about the usual nonsensical things.
back to her car where i climb into the back seat and mumble about systematically putting things into place. nobody listens so i lay down and cover myself with the stupid thing that you stick in your windshield so that your car doesn't get hot. it says "NEED HELP CALL POLICE." and so i am in my own little world until we get back to his apartment.
laying on the couch, listening to the beatles. the breeders. the pixies. there is a man named jim who rocks the mandolin. there is a dennis who was found in a trashcan. there was a james beside of me and there was my serina on the other side.
hooray for changing tenses in the middle of paragraphs.
i'm not making sense and i don't mind if you don't.
it's hard to make sense during times such as these.
i smell of substance abuse and my eyes are sleepy.
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