I wanted to think that after getting released from jail that the first thing I'd do was to go home and light up a blunt. But I didn't. The cops confiscated my recent purchase and happened to neglect to put everything on the report. I hope they enjoy that pot granola bar because I didn't get so much as a taste. For real though I knew I had a few nugs here and there I could have scrapped together into a decent sized bowl, I just wasn't in the mood. I was, for lack of a better term, scared straight. Figuring out which tie I would wear to my court date seemed much more important than igniting any incriminating chemical imbalance in my body.
All week I refrained from substance abuse. I went to work, came home, maybe jerked off once or twice, went to sleep and then started the whole sober process over again the next day. The experience was like a daily slap in the face from an orthodox catholic tia from Guadalajara. By Thursday I found myself waving my hands in front of my face, tripping out on the trails that didn't follow. By Friday morning while brushing my teeth for the commencement of the double that would consume my day, I found myself positively overwhelmed by the strangest feeling. Clarity of thought. By Saturday night, while putting up chairs upside down on tables, I felt only one thing, crisp, pristine, unforgiving crankiness. Raw, unadulterated, from the core of the last drop of divadome left over from my early twenties, indiscriminate bitchery.
By 12:37am on Sunday morning the last thing I wanted to hear was the heart wrenching buzz of Beto wanting to come up and see me. Late Saturday nights have become our unspoken ritual meeting time, but I couldn't find it in me to speak up and cancel. So I let him up. And in he came with two cups of fungi infused chocolate pudding and a joint to boot.
"I can't party with you anymore," I uttered, my eyelids were heavy with remorse. He knew why. I told him the whole thing on Wednesday night.
"Yes you can," he locked his eyes to mine. "You have until your court date to do whatever you want. After that, then you have to be a good boy." He walked over to my silverware drawer, pulled out a spoon and scooped out a gelatinous dollop of chocolaty goodness and airplaned it into my mouth.
That was the sixth week in a row that Beto and I have welcomed in the dawn together.
All week I refrained from substance abuse. I went to work, came home, maybe jerked off once or twice, went to sleep and then started the whole sober process over again the next day. The experience was like a daily slap in the face from an orthodox catholic tia from Guadalajara. By Thursday I found myself waving my hands in front of my face, tripping out on the trails that didn't follow. By Friday morning while brushing my teeth for the commencement of the double that would consume my day, I found myself positively overwhelmed by the strangest feeling. Clarity of thought. By Saturday night, while putting up chairs upside down on tables, I felt only one thing, crisp, pristine, unforgiving crankiness. Raw, unadulterated, from the core of the last drop of divadome left over from my early twenties, indiscriminate bitchery.
By 12:37am on Sunday morning the last thing I wanted to hear was the heart wrenching buzz of Beto wanting to come up and see me. Late Saturday nights have become our unspoken ritual meeting time, but I couldn't find it in me to speak up and cancel. So I let him up. And in he came with two cups of fungi infused chocolate pudding and a joint to boot.
"I can't party with you anymore," I uttered, my eyelids were heavy with remorse. He knew why. I told him the whole thing on Wednesday night.
"Yes you can," he locked his eyes to mine. "You have until your court date to do whatever you want. After that, then you have to be a good boy." He walked over to my silverware drawer, pulled out a spoon and scooped out a gelatinous dollop of chocolaty goodness and airplaned it into my mouth.
That was the sixth week in a row that Beto and I have welcomed in the dawn together.
Hey man, sorry it took so long to visit your blog and leave you a comment. I have to say, you have some seriously good writing skills that I aspire to have. I'm not English major, but I want to be able to write a captivating paragraph like you.
ReplyDeleteI guess it's good to hear that you're being more...serious about life? Eh, I don't know what I'm talking about.
I've had to leave some bad influences in my life behind due to my academic career. It sucks because you're falling out of such a comfortable spot. But life is about taking risks and doing things that aren't always the most comforting. Take leaps and don't be afraid to fall...wise words from Betty Suarez of "Ugly Betty."
Anyways, I don't know if what I wrote related to what you were talking about.