 |
Mrs. Ozzy Osbourne.
|
Christmas has come and gone, another day in an unending
series of boring days.
The most excitement I've had this holiday season is the nine
hits of acid I scored off a co-worker, B_____ J_____ and his girlfriend, S_____.
B_____ J_____ looks a bit like Danzig and Ozzy's 40-year-old love child,
the kind of guy who would frighten the devil alone in a dark alley. In truth,
though, he's a really nice dude who screams with a death metal band or two. You
wouldn't know it to look at him, but he went to some expensive private college
with a German name: Heidelberg or Otterbein or Wittenberg or something
stern-sounding. I've partied quite a lot with them; they don't have a car, so I'm
happy to drive them around occasionally, particularly since the drive usually
ends in a pile of weed, or, sometimes, blow.
This time, however, it's acid, and after taste-testing the stuff
Wednesday night, I do believe that B____J____ beat the shit out of the devil in
that alley and stole his best stash. Early in the evening I go see Four Rooms
with Steve B_____ and J_____, a great guy who works at the head shop upstairs
from the bar. I consider asking J_____ if he'd be into coming back to our place
after the movie and tripping, but I'm not sure if he's cool with it. He makes a
living selling bongs and rolling papers, so I think he'd probably be into it,
but I decide to try it myself first before sharing with anyone. If it's bunk or
poison, I don’t want to kill anyone, or their buzz.
One thing is certain—it's not bunk. The trip is intense,
dirty and lasts a good twelve hours. I sit in front of the TV, a wide grin
plastered to my pallid, sweaty face, and watch twelve straight episodes of
Absolutely Fabulous, I think without blinking once. Eventually, now daylight, I
move from the living room to my bed to tremble and quake through the coming
down process. Seems safe to share, though, so I make a date to share it with F_____ in
Louisville next weekend.
Speaking of dates, K_____ called out of the blue about a
week ago, “I've had a really bad day. Why don't you come over and bring a bottle
of wine?” It's 2 a.m. when she calls and the guys and I aren't really wine
drinkers, so there are no liquor stores open and there's no wine in the house.
It doesn't matter anyway, because I do not intend to take wine, or even go to her place.
“Sure,” it's the quickest route to get her off the phone. I
go back to sleep and stand her up. I don't see her again until last night at
work. Her band is the opener and I ask to work the back door so I can be as far
away as possible. Eventually, though, I have to switch to the front door and
the unavoidable confrontation occurs.
“You blew me off,” she kisses my cheek, the scent of bourbon
reaching my face several seconds before her lips.
Goddammit, why won't you just
get pissed, throw a drink in my face like any other self-respecting woman, and storm off? And why am I not drinking bourbon right now?
“I know. It was rude of me. I fell asleep. I'm sorry,”
straining to sound sincere.
“It's my fault.”
What? Are you fucking kidding me? I stood you up. Blame me!
Then forget me.
“No. I'm just really fucked up right now. Kinda just want to be by
myself,” no straining there—perhaps the most sincere things I've ever said to her.
“I'm fucked up, too,” she volunteers.
“Yeah. I know,” my silent reply.
