Wednesday, March 10, 2010
"What? Is it unreasonable to want to feel good and have fun for a majority of the time? Is it lame to just not want to work? C'mon. Who really likes working? And what's wrong with getting paid to play, fuck, eat, breathe, move, rather than work? Why do so many religions dictate that we must suffer to some degree before being in some "being's" good graces? Who's quota is that? Am I working for them? And if so, why am I not getting paid?"
She continues, patiently scrubbing the burnt potatoes from the bottom of the pot with luke-warm, soapy water. She always gets real quit when she's stoned. Her long blonde hair, stringy from 3 days of double shifts. Too tired to shower and no time to anyway. "Finally. He's run out of things to say", she drawls.
"So what if I want to smoke a bowl, stare at large cocks on craigslist that don't belong to the person who posted the ad? How does that hurt you? It's free, and it's making humanity a bit more bearable for me. I can come, and I can breathe. Hell. It's a miracle I can still sing."
Backing up in the chair, like he's getting burned from the glaring kitchen light, he squints at his hands as he tidies up the table. "She's beautiful" he thinks, goes up behind her and and plants his left hand firmly on the soft, right cheek of her ass, clad in overpriced, brand new jeans, made to look twenty years old. "These jeans look good" remarking as he shuffles to the living room.
"ka-blunk!" and hum. No one ever remembers to turn down the amp before turning it off. For the past three nights he's been trying to play the intro to "Alight", but it's hard to copy the feedback. In those stretches of silence, when two people are high, something's bound to come up out of the blue. He puts the Dano back in the rack and goes on this weird rant, like he's some giving a lecture to art school freshmen who are hungry to hear more shit that would piss off their parents and she's feeling sick:
"You think drunk driving is terrible? If so, you've obviously never done it. There is a reason so many people die doing it: It's fucking fun. Life doesn't feel so heavy. For once I feel free. For once I'm not thinking about the future, not even past this second. I'm right here. I drank some drinks. I made eyes at someone who wasn't you. I had a smoke. My legs were moving to the beat of the kick and tom. I wasn't thinking about numbers."
She turns the faucet off, towels off her hands, and turns to him like a mother to a spoilt child. "You know? You're an asshole. But I get it. I get it." She thought about all the times she had driven home not only drunk, but flat out shit-housed. Those nights when she woke up early in the morning, not able to remember anything about the drive home. Thinking how lucky she is, and at the same time thinking "what the fuck. When it's time to go it's time to go. It's out of our hands." Always finding a way to avoid responsibility. They belong to each other.
She's a slinky cat of a woman, leading with her hips and reaching for his beer before entering the living room. Brushing a strand of hair out of her face, tucking it behind her ear, straddling his lap, a tragic smile to rest on his chest. He wraps one arm around her while cupping the back of her head in his left hand.
He said "Let's get in this machine. Let's drive it. Let's go real fast."