Saturday, May 19, 2007


It takes more than necking another bottle of OC Skinny to get me flipped over by a memory jacker out for cerebral kicks in the pitch-coal-black grind base connectors at Paralyze, the hippest nite-mare this side of Fryday.

I lounge with my co-conspirators and suck it all in. Eight white hot chimeryczny chicks; we get what we want, we get who we want. And right now it’s more free drinkies and then a glide to the floor to cut it up and make a mark.

The Tri-D scares no one with all that magniloquent bleugh about how the relentless boom boom boom of the electro-ratcheted future sounds of the megalopolis will mean I’ll be pierdolić by the time I’m really ancient and well on my way to a quarter century. I won’t be able to hear for skitt, so what, right? Not only is this dreamy aura delight well worth any minor to major loss, but by the time I turn twenty-five I’ll be to old to care anyway.

Right now the furious reverberations are so massive they bury beneath my skin, resonating with my bones; I am one and the same with the sociopathic beats and with my Skinny and maybe, just maybe a snifter of something a little bit more potent; Frenesí, liquid Pozgon or a tab or two of Ten/10?. Ten/10 mixed with Delirium and a line or three of Marzenie, yummy. They call it Hotspur, the best drug you’ve never had. I ain’t paying for none of it mind, never do. Let them think they’ve spiked me, the truth is my little spaceman, I can take any amount you can, and still crawl back home.

Fifteen summers, two in a rotation of blissed-out twilights to raging first light and yeah, possibly I am an old timer now, but this is more home to me than that dried up witch and her newest limp dick. ‘Ohhhh honey, you’re not going out again is ya?’ Trying to relate to me with furrowed brows, long words and his sweaty sweaty hands, that when the witch looks away end up, everywhere. Can't really blame the poor old sod, guess I look like the witch, only much younger, much thinner and a cutrillion times hotter.

Yeah, they call us twigs. They call us scratch-jills, they call us access-whories they call us pill-girlies, giggles and worse. They call us when they need to look good and want to get sucked (go suck yourself). They think we do it for what they hold in their pockets but that just ain’t the case. I do it ‘cause I choose to, and ‘cause it’s fun.

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