Gin and Time Travel

It’s Friday night, I have made no plans, and I’ve been drinking coffee all day.  I’ve spent the last few hours reading Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, and now I am filled with Fear and Loathing and filled with a desperation for gin.  Gin and grapefruits.

I had been tired since I woke up this morning, and throughout the day, despite the coffee, I found myself falling asleep for a half hour here, an hour there, like a narcoleptic.  But now that my belly is slushing around with coffee and my veins are highly caffeinated and after pooping about four times in the last two hours, I feel as though I have finally woken up.

            

Whatever this is it is being written as a self-punishment.  I have not done enough today and I did not work at all to plan out some sort of adventure or outing.  I need to escape these suburbs.   They are evil.  They are boring.  I usually just close my eyes and drift off to some land of pure imagination where things are much more exciting, but I have yet to even do that today.  I want to feel as though I’ve accomplished something, so we are all now being bombarded by these words that seem to say very little—but how can you say anything interesting after spending an entire day in bed with pots of coffee, books, and a colon full of shit?

            

I am furiously writing this so that I can not feel so guilty about going down to Jewel and getting some New Amsterdam and grapefruit juice.  Something in my mind is clicking, it’s a warning signal, an alarm from my memory about what happened the last time I spent a night in with a bottle of gin.  I woke up the next morning, not feeling too great but not feeling too terrible, and looked at the bottle and saw only the slimmest level of gin left.  It was not even enough to make some authentic Hair of the Dog.  My last memory from the night before had been watching the video to Gotye’s “Somebody That I Used to Know” on repeat over and over and bawling my eyes out.  It was as if I was 19 again and in the Pit of Unrequited Love, days that felt like I was going through a second puberty and one where it felt like something in my chest was severely exploding and the only way to ease the pressure was to bury my face in a pillow and get it good and wet.  It was as if the gin and that damned song had made me time travel and if that indeed is what the future of time travel will be like, you can count me right out.