06.Apr.2003
don't just stand there and shout it
--
do something about it
In this transcended, half-stage of Saturday Night intoxication, touched by sheer boredom and unremitting manic-depressiveness, I found a Visa and MasterCard sticker sitting on Terry's computer desk. I tore it so that the crimson circle proclaiming Master remained, and I pasted it to my belly.
Without warning nor invitation, my wavering fortitude was infringed upon by Beth and Dion. Those of you who have taken it upon yourselves to read the diary have a vague idea of who Beth truly is; Dion is a recurring yet unaccredited character in the series.
Beth, a consummate partier at a mere 17 years of age, requested I hand over some of my alcohol to her.
Already chafed with the evening, I momentarily locked myself in the bathroom and rang The Beast, who informed me, "Well, if you hang around shitty people ..."
I lit the stillness-infected room with KMFDM, Depeche Mode, Recoil, and Godhead; I recognize clearly I miss my evanescent club days. I rang an old crony of mine, who in turn rang the Beast, and we telephonically took the piss out of each other for possibly two hours or so.
My mood fluctuated; I enjoyed the first hour of the conversation. Toward the advent of the second, however, I grew antsy as I, to my disdain, inexorably sobered.
Beth craved amphetamines; Demetrius slept; Dion hung his head to the left and impassively stroked Beth's arm; Terry rocked his burgundy-head from side to side; I ran my tongue into my thumb-nail and stifled various homicidal tendencies, born and bred and beaten by my Arkansas-infused disgruntlement.
The night grew colder; I believe Oklahoma City received Dallas' hail-storm at approximately 4 this morning. I attempted falling asleep on Terry's bed, sans Terry, with a single, taper candle lit in the corner of his microscopic bedroom, enveloped in shadow-lightning, desiring fuck-play, my tongue stinging with alcohol, lips stained but marginally untouched, my lower back swelling with the incessant ache, my orthotricyclen-touched heart palpitating implacably.
The boys roused me at four in the afternoon, curious as to how I slept.
"Horribly, dollfaces," I said, "hence I am still in bed at four in the afternoon."
Either way.
--
time & machine