i am posting this a second time because i failed to properly review the document before posting it.
that means, technically, there were two bad trips! imagine that. horrific.
"Shit, man. Look at those lines. They're fucking huge."
Our car's everywhere now, sliding, swerving, out of control, in hysteria, and it's a beautiful thing. We can see the headlights flashing rapidly, or the sky sparkling with respect for our latest endeavor, an expedition across St. Louis. Our only speech is a thoroughfare of laughter while we scramble for another hit, our only thoughts focused upon the clash of reds and blues and black mottling the horizon.
"Fuck, I can't feel my legs!"
I take one big swig from the communal Vodka, and it's like poetry, every second things becoming a little more amazing, a little better than they were six hours ago before our blood was stained to accommodate the dark. I'm driving and there's someone in front of us, slowing, slowing, but instead I opt for the pill littering the floor. I'll take a blunt, I'll pop some shit, I'll even pierce my veins every evening if it means I'm trapped right here, gazing at something and thinking that it does not matter.
That's what we think, when we stare into that car in front of us and we hit it, I am thinking that things are okay. Life is still gorgeous, and things are still shitty, and everything is so much better when it's not the next morning.
"My eyes, dude, they're bleeding."
So I'll take that next morning, in court, in jail, watching my best friend choke on his own vomit, hearing my parents cry, and I'd rather shove a needle up it—anything but see that dull grayscale for what it is. We keep watching the twisting of the image before us, melting in the prevalence it maintains in our lifestyles, and every second it seems a little prettier.
"I heard that last night was amazing."
Maybe I'll remember a flash, a glance, a little moment when things are perfect like they always absolutely must have been, but nothing can replace a night spent unconscious.
"I think it was."