All right. In the park. It’s quiet, the wind is whispering in the trees, song sparrows are singing. I feel massively understimulated. Inside there was Twitter, Facebook, pornography. Out here the emptiness of nature. Crows cawing, woodpeckers. Beautiful wholesome things that will only fuck up your high. Meanwhile my neighbors are doing a photo shoot; their yard is filled with the type of nubile nineteen year old band hanger-on who wears huge sunglasses and silver leggings. Right next to me is Dov Charney’s cocaine jerkoff fantasy come to life, lithe hot young ass bending over, and I am shut out of it. Maybe I should just jerk off again.
I am noticing the trees. Their bark. The tassels of the grass twitching in the breeze. I will focus for a few seconds on one grass stem waving back and forth, think about its seeds. The grass out here has seed pods covered in tiny hooks that make it so they can only move in one direction. If you put one on your palm and shake a little it’ll move in a straight line. It’s an issue for dog owners; if your dog has large enough nostrils they’ll inhale one and it’ll work its way up into the dog’s sinus. The vet has to go in there with a snakey claw like Quaid used to take that giant glowing ball out if his nose in Total Recall. That’s what I’m thinking about. The grass seeds. Not a new insight that will make my life click into place. Not a story idea that I could use my agitated energy to crank out in forty five minutes, gaining accolades from my five fans. The grass seeds. Which I have already used as a metaphor somewhere.
A hummingbird has landed on a pine branch. They used to tell you that hummingbirds had to constantly keep moving or their hearts will stop. Bullshit. This fucker is clearly sitting still. Plus, how would they sit in the fucking nest, how would they lay eggs. Fuck off, whoever told me that about hummingbirds.
Back inside. The speed feeling has kicked in now with the second pill and I am manically constructing an artificial vagina. Nay, an entire artificial woman, or at least, the fun parts. I make progress on my Frankenstein lover and then think better of it and come back to the computer to write. But she’s there, beckoning me. Fuck me, she says. This kind of feels like coke but you can get a boner. Draw the blinds and put me on the piano bench and fill me full of Curel® Intensive Care and watch the sickest, filthiest porn you can find and fuck me. But that feeling comes in waves, and at the bottom is: Jesus, what the fuck are you doing. Still. I’m not harming anybody. Unless I’m found dead with my dick in this contraption, there will be no consequences.
My sight is getting blurry now and I have aches and pains. I get waves where I’m high as shit and I just want to jerk off, and then waves of regret. The second pill was a mistake. I’m grinding my jaw and pulling back my nostril to sniff back coke even though I haven’t done any. I’m too high to go out. Just ride it out now till it cools off a bit. It’s not as bad as you think it is. It’ll subside and the you can get back to looking at stupid shit on the internet. Hydrate yourself. Eat something, get some blood sugar. Deep breaths. This is a pill that eighty pound twelve year olds take every day. Don’t let it get on top of you.