KB
There is nothing more refreshing than bathing in the shallow futility of continued existence & your general inadequacy.
I am constantly jonesing for my next fix of the ineffable idiot-sandwich that is malaise & muted melancholy. Naturally, the ego is a self-absorbed diva that can't shush its lips & stop gossiping for a second without some assistance. Thus, the eternal question. Which substance to abuse today?
Booze is nice & all for purposes of modest self-medication. Yet, hitting that sweet spot between blessed release from the inanity of the inner monologue & mouth-breathing Cro-Magnon-like blackout haze requires professional precision that I simply do not possess.
Our juvenile drinking usually consisted of godawful, $10 blended whiskey secreted away in half-crushed water bottles for speedy consumption at shows.
No, pal, I...don’t know how we got heat-strokes. Yes, we have been pounding hard liquor on empty stomachs for the better part of four hours. We'll just chalk it up as one of God's mysteries, I suppose.
Logically, this Hapsburg-esque tragi-comedy legacy of haphazard fuckery does not lend itself well to my efforts to internally immolate my vagabond of an ego.
So whenever I want to feel...comfortably dumb, I enlist pharmaceutical assistance by way of barbiturates.
Isn't barbiturates such a fantastic word? Really, it just rolls off the tongue with deceptive grace.
Makes me feel like I’m Vercingetorix leading the Gauls into battle against the damned Roman occupiers at Alesia. In fairness, I doubt he was perpetually popping percocets amid an insurrection against Caesar.
But don’t tell me those crazy Gallic rascals didn’t have a cheeky poppy addiction on the side betwixt their bouts of looting, pillaging, & running amok.
I mean, can you really blame them for getting addicted? After all, it’s nice to feel nothing, isn’t it? To clarify, I’m no junky. That implies the sort of visceral addiction that requires the intravenous injection of hard drugs.
I like my veins unmolested, thank you very much. This body is a temple, baby. Vandals need not apply. Not to mention, it’s just fucking gauche.
If you can’t handle the farm system that is experimentation with a sundry of painkillers, you sure as hell ain’t ready for the big leagues of depravity.
The Klonopin I pop envelops me in a deliciously warm blanket. Don’t worry, it's just a little peach. I’m not gonna overdose like some poor, miserable, forgotten generational statistic. How passe would that be?
Honestly, the mere fact that my synapses can still muster up enough disdain for the truly unfortunate disappoints me.
Why yes, Doctor, I am still feeling rather anxious. Let’s up that dosage, shall we? There's a good man. Thank Christ his Hippocratic Oath prevents him from telling me to cool my damn jets & wait things out. It's much healthier to ameliorate the pain by reducing everything to a constant dull ache, right?
Peaks & valleys are for Buddhists. I’m here for the bland, milquetoast imitation of life.
"Everyone trusts a drug dealer when he wears gloves," my doctor would murmur to himself sotto-voce.
Keeping quiet, I would flash a tight-lipped smile at my loose-moraled, pharmaceutical-shilling friend. I'd practically snatch the golden ticket to neurological numbness out of his hand & hastily exit stage right.
Thanks, Obamacare. I shall be suckling at the sweet teat of prescription painkillers for another misbegotten year.
Unfortunately, I made the mistake of sharing this fashion-forward anecdote with my smooth-brained weed dealer. Damn it all to hell if the gloves don’t sort of lend him some wholly undeserved legitimacy.
...lose the gloves, you troglodyte.
Not a chance, big guy. I’m staving off Corona.
You thought Corona was a country for nearly a year. You’re not the W.H.O. You sell $20 grams to idiots like me.
I must stress like me. Not me, personally.
I get $5gs because I’m not a mindless consumer sheep. The Art of the Deal works 60% of the time, every time. I’ve only read the front jacket cover, but I think I got the gist of it.
Which is what exactly?
Buy high, sell low, & lose all your birthday money.
Good advice, Elon, but instead I used my birthday money to buy these rather snazzy gloves instead.
I thought the whole point of perceived professionalism is that they're supposed to be surgical.
Why would I rock surgical gloves? That's not fashion.
Speaking of fashion, aren't the leather gloves...yanno a bit disrespectful to Prince’s memory?
Isn't your sham of a painkiller habit more disrespectful?
How so?
Because he medicated with Fentanyl, & you’re sipping Fanta from my mom’s mini-fridge.
It's Pineapple. I'm doing her a favor.
You didn’t ask permission for that, by the way.
Oh, behave you cretin.
What's that, like a baby crouton?
No, but you would be lucky to one day rival a Caesar Salad for general sentience. Until then, why don't you learn how to cultivate a warm, accepting ambiance? It’s called customer service & conveying a personal touch.
A personal touch? Yeah, nice try, Stranger Danger.
Remind me to leave you a rather scathing Yelp review.
Fuck Yelp. I’m not a businessman. I’m a business...man.
Butchering Jay-Z’s delivery like that is criminal, pal.
Why do you care? Don't the billionaires have more than enough bootlickers already?
I don’t even like Jay-Z. Nas & SNL are the kings of New York. It’s the principle of disrespecting art like that.
What would you know about disrespect, Shames Joyce?
Um, for instance, how hard dating at 25 is.
What's so difficult about it?
For example, I'll head over to Buford's & post a pic there on my story, hoping my ex sees it & swipes up. She does, but only to tell me that she's coming in with her fiancé, who has a "real job," so I should kick rocks.
Doesn't she know how hard you don't work?
Exactly! It's practically a full-time job emailing Barstool & Lorne screenshots of my jokes from the group chat. My searing wit goes tragically unappreciated.
I didn't realize you were on a first-name basis with Mr. Michaels, considering he's clearly been screening your emails.
It's an unspoken mutual artistic respect. You couldn't possibly understand our world.
What I understand is that you don't have a real full-time job.
Watch your tone alright, bud. I'm due to blow up soon. Consider me available for my eventual Zoom interview.
What's your backup plan in case your emails keep getting lost...accidentally?
Uhmmm, probably starting an acoustic ukulele tribute band. We will exclusively play "Illmatic."
Bad news, my dude. Nas' posse is at capacity, too.
Ah, well, nevertheless. Hope springs eternal.
"Playing "Eternal Atake" by Lil Uzi Vert."
No Alexa I-
Let her go for it.
"Stand on my money now I’m 3’6!"
Did you shrink?
Yeah, you ever heard of student loan debt & subprime mortgages sandwiched between a pandemic?
Don't you mean Plandemic?
More like Pat Bennett.
Who?
Yanno, she played the keytar.
That was Pat Benatar, & if you keep that attitude up, you’ll never have a total eclipse of my heart.
Wasn’t that Bonnie Tyler?
It’s pronounced Bon Iver.
Actually, the B is silent.
So it’s On Iver?
Yeah, it's a bastardized Anglicization of the French “en hiver” or “in winter.”
I wanna call bullshit, but that sounds just plausible enough.
Don't google it. Coincidentally, in winter is the next time I'm gonna listen to “For Emma, Forever Ago” on repeat for three days to really kickstart my next manic depressive cycle.
Why don’t you just scroll through your ex’s Instagram since she is recently engaged & aggressively wedding planning?
Hmm, she did send me a wedding invite. But I think it was one of those where they expect you to respectfully regret to inform the happy couple to be that you won't be attending.
I'd say that's a surprisingly good read of the situation.
It's a shame then, that she sent it to your mom’s address. She’s got it pinned to the fridge to remind herself of the daughter-in-law she should have had, but you went & bungled it.
Well, maybe now I’ll go out of spite.
To do what exactly?
Chug a few 4Lokos before the reception & throw up on her grandma while we slow dance painfully to Vanessa Carlton’s “A Thousand Miles”.
That sounds delightfully picturesque.
How should I dress to let everyone know I’ve totally moved on & am definitely in a healthy place emotionally?
Tuxedo Tees are very 2007.
Are they?
How about a grey suit so people mistake you for a groomsman & politely initiate a conversation with you only to quickly realize you’re a sad, angry, clingy shell of a human being?
Okay, well, I was going to lead with those ringing LinkedIn endorsements for my impromptu-&-unwanted wedding toast, but now you’ve gone & spoiled it.
A small price to pay to prevent you from ruining their day.
Alright, relax. I’ll just buy them a toaster oven from their Nordstrom registry that will go unused because she’ll wanna go gluten-free after the honeymoon.
I don't understand the correlation. Does ineffective sex in a Sandals Resort Jacuzzi give you Celiac disease?
Nah, she'll just be pissed that his idea of foreplay is saving her half a Hawaiian Roll from the breakfast buffet.
Fuck it. I’m buying myself a toaster & inhaling my body weight in Pop-Tarts to flood my brain with enough sugar to finally overwhelm my last remaining dopamine receptor.
You fought well, lad. But this isn’t Thermopylae. There shall be no paeans sung in honor of your valor.
Come on, skinny love, just last the year...
