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May 9, 2005
Cra(n/c)k It On Up Again
I’m a real trooper/trouper, ain’t I? Oh. …
+4
There.
Work on a come down without sleep for 72 hours during which your food intake consisted of nothing more than a plate of cheese and gravy smothered fries, beer, bourbon, and Vitamin Water(tm) is not easy. Don’t buy into the media-driven hype, don’t let anyone fool you or tell you otherwise: the life of a crackhead is not glamorous, not all fun and games, blowouts with blowjobs, not easy street. I take back what I said earlier; most people can’t handle it, they can’t hang. Sure, you got your career crackheads—that core of committed individuals that stick it out come hell or high water—but most people eventually throw-in the towel, look for other work. You get a lot of turn-over.
Incidentally, I’m in the 86th hour, out $420 not counting cabs or sundries. Fell asleep on the way-home train and ended up way the fuck out there, where I’ve never been before, some barrio called Ditmas Park or something like that. I still need socks. Mattera fact, I’m going to break right this instant to administer a quick handwashing to a deserving pair. Hold.
[pausing, pausing, pausing…]
K, a blue couple, draped in halves over the insert window screen. Now we can operate.
So, enough of the wanky Publisher’s Note. I’m going to now attempt the stunt that I attempted post-bar this early very morning: enter the notes I scribbled over IPAs, tried as I might to let it go, leave my work at the office. As then outlined, the strat was to just get the nougaty nugget so that at least they get there, and go back later to flesh and fill. But I have a hard time doing that. I mighta gotten a one/won in before getting increasingly masturbatory as consciousness grew turbid, taking on the gooped leather quality of a rind muddled sticky with cane and crushed ice. I had moments like that at work today, when every force, chi, and effort in my corporal person gathered and united could not keep my lids from grinding protraction and words lost their significant values and every course of action kept well hidden. I’d sit and stare, shake my head, adjust my position, hum, turn up the music, channel my stubborn reserves, and do nothing but spin. But I’m rambling again…
Onward now with strict transcription. Step 1.
Posted by peligrito at May 9, 2005 9:53 PM
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