About a month or so ago--maybe longer--the annual carnival-themed party on 21st and I street was goin' down on a saturday night, and, highly anticipating it, I arrived in splendid attire and giddy glee. I bought a small bottle of whiskey on the way, slugging it down alongside diet coke as quickly as I could so that I'd be in the proper state of mind upon arrival. I was a little bit disappointed that there was no jumpy-house this time around, but considering that poor Debbie lost her false teeth last year thanks (but no thanks) to the lure of the not-so-inflated castle-spectacular, I should be grateful that it wasn't around for me to get trampled to death in. Knowing what came to pass later, that's probably what would have happened.
Everyone in the whole world makes stupid decisions. It's good to avoid it whenever possible, but it's worse to avoid it too much. At the ripened age of 24, I'd say I've made more than my fair share of questionable choices, but I have usually walked away knowing what not to do, and so long as this is the result, regret can be kept to a minimum. For some reason, though, the carnival party this year provided a petree-like controlled environment for a rare strain of personal disaster and temporary derangement that I hope never to reformulate for the rest of my life-long experiment! I would have trotted home to my nest at the end of the night with a song on my lips and a beat in my heart had I not spoilt the pleasantry with a grave mistake...
Falling down a 'K hole' is so beyond the realms of description that anything I could write on the subject would only be the tip of the iceberg. I gave up hard drugs years ago and found that they didn't have anything productive or enrapturing to bring to the table one you'd been around the block a couple times, so why I voluntarily put that crap up my nose is utterly mystifying to me! But at some point in the night, I was casually offered a drug I knew nothing about, and I very casually accepted it.
All that came after that, as I said before, is impossible to describe, but I'll try. After what seemed like an eternity of hearing, smelling, feeling and moving in pulsating waves with intermissions of silent blackness, I arrived at what seemed to be the front porch of death itself and promptly made myself right at home. Every iota in my flimsy vessel was so convinced that I was dying and deserved to die that I felt eager for it to take me sooner rather than later; thank heavens it never did! Between bouts of projectile vomiting, I tried to explain to whatever blurry forms surrounded me the grim truths about my soul and my inability to endure the world. I remember being scared and wanting to die, but other than that, these are all reiterations from witnesses.
My favorite moment recounted from that night came from Chenelle: Apparently, at one point, I removed my face from the soiled trashcan it had been immersed in for hours in order to get a close squint at the palms of my hands, and then exclaimed in a hoarse whisper, 'My hands! Oh, my hands...they are tarnished! Nooooo!'
I swear I feel really fucking bad about all that I put my friends through that night and am embarrassed that any of this took place (though not too embarrassed to write about it on the Internet!), but that line amuses me SO much because I can't imagine me saying that with a serious look on my face.
I'm telling you all of this because my brain is fried from tonight's show at the Mohawk and I don't want to write about my days in New Orleans right now, nor to I want to get into the new friends I've made this evening, or the great show we had, or the fact that Naomi's been teaching me how to drive. I especially don't have the energy to peck out my meandering platitudes on my quarter-life crisis and the developments regarding my tentative move halfway across the country.
No, sir-ee. Not tonight.