Tuesday, February 06, 2007

courageous cookie cupboard

A guy tried to pick me up the other night, which was weird all by itself, but then he started flirting with a another dude who had long hair - him being so drunk that he probably was under the impression that this was just another girl who happened to carry a flashlight in her pants. So, there's me, and I am definitely female - and this drunk, sexually desperate guy trying to pick me up, when all the sudden he stops talking to me in mid-sentence and stumbles next to Guy With Long Hair - who is, in Drunk Guy's eyes, a much more promising venture - and proceeds to try to put his hand on GWLH's ass. Luckily, GWLH was apparently a passifist, so there was no disruptive fistfighting, GWLH simply walked away, probably to go home and read about the land wars in the rainforest and cry himself to sleep. But I was wretched inside. True, Drunk Guy was drunk, and I'm glad he got away from me, but no matter what the circumstances, it never feels good to be considered less attractive when compared to a dude who appeared to have never indulged in the luxery of soap, and who couldn't possibly have a larger cup size than me (seriously, and even if he did, he couldn't have been bigger by much).

I wrote this poem a long time ago, but it's funny, so I'm posting it anyway. It's about the confusion and silly thoughts that comes with taking acid.

Neuron Bob Can Taste Blue

Nocturnal’s pupils are the size of chickpeas.
The night time is the right time
To keep to the woods, along the river, among the ruins.
We follow the footprints left by World War II era tanks.
Monsters are flying among the tree branches and
Playing amid the rotting corpses of factories
Built in a time long before my father was banging my mother.
We lose one in Little Mexico.
Find him again an hour later staring through the glass
At tractors on an exhibition floor.
He describes them; massive metal dragons sitting silently.
At peace. They are gentle giants.
He pulls away from us and runs again.
He hassles the driver of a baked goods delivery van.
He climbs a tree and we follow him,
And he starts talking about residual hauntings,
What it may mean about space and time.
The trip is tricky;
No one can tell how much of it is wacked out neurons,
Trying to go about their business,
But they just keep falling on their faces and
Forgetting what they were talking about;
Or how much of it is the spiritual mind connecting to the
Universal awareness – if only for a few seconds.
Then the victim spends the rest of his evening trying to
Comprehend, fathom, consider, realize, understand...
Like trying to put a puzzle together when the pieces are all up-side-down.

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