My nose is plugged to shit and whistles if I breathe too hard. I haven’t opened my eyes yet but I can only imagine the scene. The head’s swimming in Bacardi, my breath tastes like pussy, and my cock is sore as all hell. It’s obvious I fucked last night and fucked hard. I’m pretty sure it’s that apathetic-slut Sonya which actually kind of irritates me. I didn’t want to fuck any of the broads at this place and not only did I do that, but I ended up spending the night at this fucking dump… That’s just not my style.
Another part of me can’t help but to be slightly turned on. As much of a cunt Sonya may be, she is a fucking knockout that I’ll be jerking off to in the bathroom for months to come. Dark-hair which I love. Soft tits that aren’t too big but not too small. Great glass-cutting nipples. And an ass like butter that cups perfectly in my hand…
Now that I think of it, I didn’t do too poorly. The only thing the bitch lacks is personality… and these days personality doesn’t rank too high on my importance-meter anyway. At my age, who has time for personality?
The shame’s gone so I open my eyes. Sonya’s next to me passed out like a narcoleptic; I think she’d sleep through a thirty-minute Rictor-Shuffle if she had to. Even asleep after a hard night of partying she doesn’t look all that bad. The mid-afternoon Los Angeles sun is hitting her just right and I could almost see myself rubbing one off right here and now if I didn’t turn in my pervert-papers ‘x’ amount of years ago.
I scan the scene for a cigarette to get the cunt-juice taste out of my mouth, but I come up short everywhere I look. I don’t run much of a risk in waking Sonya up so I slide out of bed for a better look around the room. I strike gold a few seconds into the search when I find Sonya’s open-purse laid out messily on the carpet. I steal two of her Nigger-breath-mint Newport’s and light one up. The first drag comes close to bringing up three meals when the Menthol hits my throat but I choke it down like a man. The second and third drags go down smoother so I sit down and decide to enjoy the nicotine while it can still offer a first-of-the-day buzz. My head’s still swimming from the booze last night and I notice a bottle of Jameson (my favorite) less than an arm’s reach away. There are no glasses so I pull straight from the bottle. The whiskey burns going down and makes my empty, early-afternoon stomach rumble uncontrollably. I’m beyond getting sick from booze, but it still gets me on edge from time to time.
I take a few more pulls and finish my cigarette as the alcohol just starts to get to work in my bloodstream. The hangover is on a slow way out and I should be able to drink myself sober within the next fifteen.
The only question is: do I stay in this room for the next fifteen minutes? Or do I pack up the shop and head for my place?
I feel like walking shit right now and the last thing I want to do is drive down Sunset in fucking deadlock. I’d rather eat a Silver-Bullet-Sandwich than deal with the bright sun and dull drivers of this city. But on the other end, if by some miracle of the heavens Sonya actually manages to wake up I don’t want to have to deal with any post-fuck shit from her. I really am not in the mood for any awkward looks or silences. And I especially don’t want to deal with that whole naked-scramble that occurs between two people that really don’t feel comfortable being nude near each other. It’s fucking dirty and an uncomfortable memory in the event it ever pops up while I’m playing it in the Spank-Bank-Theater months down the road.
Another fear is that she’ll want to talk… or worse, have lunch or something. It’s all too awful to think about so I light another one of her cigarettes and continue to go to work on the Jameson.
I zone out for an amount of time I’m not sure of, thinking of too many things to register clearly. My mind is all kinds of hazy – which happens a lot for me. Sometimes it all swims around so fast I have to slow everything down through outside elements. The booze helps, but not enough. I notice more blow laid out on the small mirror we stole last night and figure a couple bumps is better for my ulcer than a cup of coffee so I go to town. Twenty minutes pass wake-up and I’ve already got nicotine, blow, and booze coursing through my veins.
Another day in LA started off on the wrong foot and I have no one to blame but myself…
It’s been this way since I first got here – constantly telling myself tomorrow will be a new day, tomorrow I’ll turn it all around, tomorrow will be the first day of the rest of my life… sadly though, tomorrow has yet to show its face around Donnie-ville.
I get sick of thinking of my failures and take another pull from the Jameson. The buzz is kicking in full swing and I can feel the warm alcoholic-wave wrap itself around my nervous system. The warm rush makes its way up and envelops itself around my brain. Any fears make their way down the escalator and a flow of overworked endorphins make it easier for me to Zen out, forget about the present, and dream of a better future… as faggy of a move that might be.
I’ve had quite a few mornings like this before, so it’s nothing new. After shoveling chemicals into my system day in and day out, the brain eventually grows-tired from delivering unnatural amounts of pleasure and takes a break at the corner deli. When that happens, an ungodly depression clouds over me – making it close to impossible to get right now matter what drugs I put in my stomach. It’s a rough few hours where I’m forced to sit in neck-deep-shit that’s so thick my body refuses to will itself to move. Everything comes back at once: who I’ve hurt, how I’ve fucked up, the lies I’ve told, the tears I’m responsible for – it all comes at the speed of lightning and there isn’t a pink cloud in sight to hide under.
In some circles what I’m experiencing is referred to as a “Black Sunday”. I actually dig the term and will probably use it on that day that may never come where I get my shit together and focus on what needs to be focused on. Usually a Black Sunday only shows its face once a month for the average Joe. But here lately, it seems every few days are a Black Sunday for me. And they are lasting longer and longer, bleeding into my afternoons and evening to the point I just want to close my eyes and wake up as a child again – a chance to do it all over and unfuck what’s been fucked…
But that Quantum Leap shit doesn’t happen in the real-life-show, and if it ever did, I doubt it would happen to an asshole like me.
I finish off the Jameson and do another line of shit. My minds still going and I don’t like all the soul-searching shit so I steal another cigarette to give myself an excuse to take a few deep breaths.
I smoke my third cigarette in silence and become aware of the time. An hour has passed since I first woke up and since I’ve done nothing but get lost in thought while drinking myself sober. The Whiskey has washed the Black Sunday away for the most part but I still find myself searching for thoughts. I look at Sonya as she sleeps in the afternoon-sun and can’t understand why I’m still here. Traffic is bad but not that bad. I’m just buzzed enough to handle the short ride down Sunset to Brentwood. But I’m still here? Smoking a cigarette and staring at a girl I wouldn’t normally grace with a mutual stare while passing her on the street. So why the fuck am I here?
Is it the blow? No… I can just take the rest of it out of her purse, disappear, and forget I know her if we ever run into each other around the strip. It can’t be the smokes either, I have Lucky Strikes in the car. Something is keeping me here and I don’t even like thinking about it. I decide after this cigarette I’m going to cowboy up and hit the road… probably even take the broads blow, smokes, and whatever cash she has just so she knows we’re not taking this any further.
But as I finish planning out my larceny I can’t even force myself to smile. I can’t get the wheels moving. It’s as if I’m scared to go outside… to leave this room – as if I only feel comfortable inside these walls, with that slut on the bed.
But it can’t be… what kind of person is scared to walk outside and face the world? Not me… it’s just not my style.
I’m tired of the Dr. Phil session in my head so I force myself to ice-up and hit the bricks. I walk to the mirror and rail-up the rest of the blow. Then I pick-up Sonya’s purse and take her cigarettes along with close to eighty bucks in cash.
I make my way to the door where I remember the twenty-bag we kept aside on the dresser by Sonya. I almost don’t want to take the risk in waking her up but I figure I’ll be jonesing for more blow when I get home where I know there’s no blow.
I walk to the dresser and lift the twenty-bag – careful as a mouse not to wake the chick. She seems to be sleeping peacefully so I make my way out the door completely guilt free.
I put my hand on the doorknob, twist, and then out of nowhere—
“You didn’t take the last of the blow did you?” She says as if she hasn’t been sleeping at all.
I debate ignoring her and leaving without a word but I don’t know what to expect outside the door and don’t want any drama. I’m getting back to normal slowly but still have a small headache that doesn’t much appreciate guff. I decide to play it cool. I turn around to face her and look her right in the eye for a beat. I’m careful not to show any emotion which is pretty easy on account I really don’t think I’m feeling much at the moment but really don’t know.
We share a stare for a minute or two and I’m really surprised by the way this is all unfolding. She’s just looking back at me like she’s expecting an answer. Usually the girls frog up when I pull this shit and I go about my way. This is different and I don’t like it so I ask her in the most annoyed tone I can muster, “What?”
“The blow asshole… did you take the last of it?” She says.
“I… I don’t know.” I sharpen myself up, take a step closer and ask, “Does it matter?”
She falls back into the bed and chuckles to herself… obviously a private joke. Then she says, “I don’t even know… whatever.”
Her naked chest bumps up and down as she continues to enjoy her private joke – obviously me as the punch-line. I’m at a loss of words by the whole situation and want nothing more than to get out of here.
“So are we like… cool?” I ask.
She smiles and lights up a cigarette that she had to have hidden in her twot or something close to it. She takes two puffs, smiles, and says “Yeah Donnie we’re cool. Go do whatever it is you do.”
This all would be too good to be true if she means any of it so I ask again, “We’re cool then.”
“Jesus Christ Donnie, yes we’re cool…” She says genuinely annoyed.
“Okay then… I guess I’ll see you around.” I say as I make my way out.
“Whatever, just uh, you know… drive safe.”
For some reason I don’t understand, I want to say something in the lines of “thanks” or something like it but can’t force the words pass my lips. Instead I leave and shut the door behind me.
I’m home free but don’t feel like it. I avoided a scene and didn’t have to say more than ten words to the chick yet for some reason I feel like I lost out and I don’t know why.
This feeling I have, the sense of losing out on something but not knowing what it is, this is all something new… or at least a feeling I haven’t had for quite some time. Whatever this is, I don’t like it.
I make my way down an empty hallway leading to the exit when all of a sudden it hits me… this feeling I have, this emptiness, I know what it is…
Respect.
