Busch beer. A naturally born inrediant that is smooth refreshing and is beer. Definetly beer. Yah. Yah. "Do you have heatlh insurance Andy? Health insurance?" "No." "Come on now, let's qualify that: hell no." "Health insurance is for people who live long."
I find narled woven loud spireling wrist bracelets to be inspiring. And strumming strings. And tall brunettes with lanky arms and too short man pants. Quiet murmerings of mother like women whispers, babies strolling through jungled cement on smooth smooth super wheels of steel. And the feeling the knowledge the feeling of becoming my ultimate. My insane. My never before seen, always known, grey hair of a genius walking the earth and brilliant with who and where and how they have been.
I'm not part of the club. Every new club, every new living room club reminds me that I am not a fucking member. Too much. Too much information and backstory, childhood friends walking through time to create memory and knowledge. Don't fucking have it. Just do not fucking have it.
My father used to hit me and I dealt with it by erasing memories I don't know I've ever really had. Sometimes my memory is still like calling the CTA for 'travel time' information. "Where's you destination?" Fuck you. Destination. "Where's your destination?" And they tell you to take the 146 to the 151 to Union Station and you listen and you wait and you call back to realize that they were telling you to go North to go South to catch a non-express bus a million miles away. And that the 146 stopped running south at "6:26 pm." Great. Fucking awesome. Cool Cool Coolio. Come on, people. Don't you ever take the GD bus? Sometimes that's what my memory is like.
James is curled up on his bed, arms wrapped as if cradling himself, knees bent, sliver of white sock showing, comforter completely wrapped around his head. Andy's around, being backwards hat adorable. Mort's around, being white t shirt aawe-some. And I have to go to the bathroom. Yah Yah
Stakes. Stakes have motherfucking rolled.