"I think its time for you to leave."

I am a mess. The only thing in this life I seem to take responsibility for are the words that fall out of my head, and sometimes even that is a stretch.That's not really true; when I do the crime, I pay the time. Unfortunately, I see crimes to be as much of a load of subjective flim-flam as I find sins. If I don't believe any god has the will or reason to denote me as a sinner, I certainly don't believe generations worth of words and decisions of "powerful" men in control of state forces have any ability to call me a criminal beyond there their own judgmental label. No god nor court will truly judge me.
Yes, we must note it is however, true that when they find it appropriate, they may kidnap me, you, or anyone else they deem advantageous to their control over the general populations. After keeping us in cages, we will be brought into a well-furnished room and the basis of what they call their "judgement" will be a mockery of every human right they ever told us we had. In reality though, the only rights we really have are the ones we decide to have. When someone violates a right you know yourself to have, have they committed a crime? Do you judge and punish them, as the state does you? Do you rely on the state to judge and punish them? How do you judge and punish the state when they violate your rights?
Without thinking about answering any of those questions, and bringing my rant to an end, I'm going to review the high points in the most recent extent of life I have encountered, having not recently been hit by a bus on a motorcycle, shot in the head (well, that did almost happen), or otherwise had my lease in this body terminated in this dementia-- I mean dimension.
First, I graced the Magic Kingdom in Walt Disney World Facilities, Orlando with my presence. Not just my mental presence either, I was physically there. Families and couples from all over the world have the proof of my even have proof of my fourteen hour occupation fun filled facilities they have there in the form of delightful photobombs. My face now travels the globes in the bags and pockets of tourists of all shapes and sizes.
I traveled with my family, and inside the facilities we found much enjoyment. Some rides were pleasant, others were exciting. The ice cream and emu legs were delicious. My only complaint is my family and I intermittently hunted for alcohol for over three hours before we were informed with a smile that the entire Magic Kingdom block of the Disney Facilities is "dry." I can assure you, during my future occupation of Walt Disney World Facilities, I will be spending more time in the "wet" facility block known as the Experimental Prototype Community of Tomorrow, or EPCOT.
After returning to the scumhell city that is Daytona Beach, with virtually no Federal Reserve Notes to my name, I spent a day drinking on the beach with my family, and enjoyed sushi at night, by way of their hospitality. I went out to see my friend's reggae show in the Seabreeze district, and used a little of my remaining Federal Reserve Notes to knock back a few beers. Being a little buzzed after the show, I visited my friends at the coffee shop. A man was there with acid and beer. I had a few beers with him, and he gave me some acid for later. I took it, and had a strange evening, spending a couple hours in a transcendental meditation.
"Meditation not medication!" I've heard many people say that in many different tones, and I always think to myself after I hear it: "A little bit of everything in moderation." The next day, after that weird shit they called acid began to wore off, but still awake and feeling a little awkward in my skin, I grabbed a four pack of Yuengling tallboys and a couple of fellow dirty crazies like myself came to Daytona from Deland to visit the studio. One wanted to discuss a business initiative he would like to share with me, and the other wanted very much to get drunk. We resolved both matters before I was persuaded to come back to Deland to feast and drink at night and shoot guns the next day. It sounded like the recipe for just the type of weekend I wanted in my mental recovery from visiting the Walt Disney World Facilities.
We fulfilled reservations for a large group and at the hospitality of my friends, on the condition they chose what I ordered, I enjoyed a dinner of fried liver and onions in a Turkish or Hungarian or some ethnic eating parlor of the likes. While this all may not seem very exciting, after dining we went downtown. Coincidentally, a musical festival was going. Some of my musician friends were producing music for crowds on several stages there, so I broke from the pack and headed to catch of their shows. I hungout with my buddy and the rest of the group caught up to me before long, and the night whittled away into a lull of good music and good people having a good time, all the until after closing time. While we were leaving the bar, a man came from the street, yelling at one of the bar staff members about a bartender who he claimed had stolen twenty of his Federal Reserve Notes. The two yabbered back and forth at each other, until right after the angry man put his hand on the staff member's shoulder. POW! The staff member punched that motherfucker right in the head and the angry man's body jerked out straight, and he fell straight backwards from the impact of the punch with the stiffness of a board. Unconscious, the man was unable to make any effort to catch his backward fall and hit his head made a nice sound on the pavement. The staff member dragged the man to the street and climbed on top of him. Meanwhile, people were yelling that the angry man's female company had just also been knocked out cold about one hundred feet away. The scene of chaos was an interesting environment. I knelt down next to the staff member to get a close view of anything he might do the man, and some people said they saw him continue to beat the man he was on top of, but I saw no such thing. Eventually, the man awoke, and the staff member climbed off of him. The woman he was with also regained her composure and was able to stand and the two of them made their way to their car, which was parked in a gated lot. Everyone cooled down, and seemed to disperse until the angry man made one last comment before getting into his car. In an instant, the staff member was yelling again, and he had a crowd of people behind him, looking like they were all ready to kick the angry man's ass, and the angry man bowed his chest and Mexican gang members came out of nowhere baring switchblade knives. Buzzed and interested, I went towards the conflict to observe what might happen. Small fights broke out, and while it seemed nobody was looking, the angry man and his woman tried to slip into their car so they could haul ass out of the situation. Others saw this happen, as well, because before the car doors could be shut, there was a small mob of people prying the doors back open, grabbing inside, trying to pull the angry man back out. Suddenly, one of the Mexican gangsters brandished a large pistol. Looking frantic and confused, he pointed his weapon at anything that moved while everyone scrambled to disappear. Even the other Mexican gansters all took off, one dropping a switch blade which is now in the possession of my friend's girlfriend. I stood there watching, until the gun found its way to be pointing at my head from about six yards away. I decided then that if it would be in my best interest to clear that area with the others. I showed the gunman a peace sign with my hand and ran out of the parking lot. The gunman jumped into the car with the angry man and his female company, while the staff member shut and locked the chain-linked parking lot gate. The angry man backed up until he had just enough room to gain speed, then proceeded to ram the locked gate with his car and running over a man who had been standing in one spot for some time like a deer in headlights. We stood around, smoking cigarettes and watching the aftermath of the even for about fifteen minutes before it was finally time to leave. The man who was hit by the escaping car was eventually met by an ambulance and likely fine, and although a little blood was shed, no lives were lost during the event, and it must be mentioned the music festival was great. My only complaint is while I was running in the opposite direction of the gunman, I had a pack of cigarettes in my breast pocket which was lost. By the time I realized this, I was already somewhere else drinking a beer. Nonetheless, I went back to the crime scene to scan the ground to see if my weed remained in the pack of cigarettes unscathed. While I found several packs of cigarettes, I did not find mine. I did, however, find the audacity to ask the staff member if had seen a pack of  blue American Spirit cigarettes lying around. Why would my pack be the only one missing?
"Oh, you mean the pack with the weed in it. Yeah, the cops have it as evidence in case the driver threw it out the window. I'll let them know it was yours."
"No, actually that wasn't the pack I was talking about, mine had cigarettes in it, but thank you." I left the area quickly.
The next day was spent shooting targets with a .50 caliber rifle on a bipod, walking around with a 12 gauge pistol grip pump action shotgun practicing my close-range home defense protocols, and practicing my longer distance aim with a semiautomatic SKS and .40 cal pistol. I'm sharing that in case I ever have a daughter's boyfriend who happens to stumble across this nice little blog.
By the next day, I had completely run of Federal Reserve Notes, but my tax refund came in. I went to the bank, and told them to give me the paper Federal Reserve Notes which my account specifies I should be able to receive. They did so, which is nice. What would happen if a bank ever said "No, we cannot or will not give you the paper Federal Reserve Notes your account specifies you should be able to receive from us." I think a public disturbance would ensue, which is amusing, since the Federal Reserve Bank often takes buying power away from the Federal Reserve Notes while they are either specified as yours in your account or in your property as paper. There is little difference between denying you access to a volume of your Federal Reserve Notes in the first place when compared with the reality now when the value of your Federal Reserve Notes are decreased in your possession. Yet there is no public disturbance while this theft occurs, and people say, "the economy is not so good," and "the market is down." I'm sure humor can be found in there somewhere, instead of disillusion.
I had a good meal, then got some pot and smoked it. Stoned, I went to my buddy's coffee shop. They were drinking wine, and making music on a keyboard-synthesizer and singing into the microphones. I was intrigued, and offered a coffee cup of wine, which I gladly accepted. I gave the shop proprietor ten Federal Reserve Notes which I had borrowed from him when I was ten dollars short for picking up new tires for my motorcycle. We smoked more weed. I a little xanax. We continued to drink wine. We smoked more weed. I took a little more xanax, and this cycle continued into the early morning. It wasn't long before my inhibitions were down, my speech was slurred, and I was operating on a very impulsive level. I remember talking to an older woman from a band, looking at her, and asking bluntly, "hey, do you wanna make out?" There was silence for a moment. "Yes." I remember caressing her. I remember talking to a writer about recording music behind her spoken word monologues she composes. My next memory comes from the bathroom of the establishment. The door opened and the proprietor looked in and said "Oh my god. I brought you pizza."
My pants were around my knees, and I was clinging onto the hips of a pantless woman, bent over with her shirt and bra cups scrunched up around her neck and her tits hanging out. It was the crazed out singer/songwriter I mentioned in my entry back in February of this year titled "Music & Cough Syrup." Before the shop proprietor turned around, a spray came from between the legs of the bent over woman. "What the- you just squirted all over me!" She looked over her shoulder at me, straightening out reaching for her pants. "I've never done that!" she said. The shop proprietor shook his head and turned around letting the door close. It was just a moment before my pants were on and I not long behind him. "Here's your pizza," he said, handing both the woman and me a delicious slice of pizza served on a paper plate. I scarfed mine down like a monster. He then produced ten Federal Reserve Notes and said, "take this." I looked at him smiling, not realizing it was the same ten Federal Reserve Notes I had given him earlier. Smiling, since someone was handing me Federal Reserve Notes to put in my pocket. I asked him what it was for, and he said, "You're out of cigarettes, and you gave the writer ten dollars because she said she's coming back. Its been a couple hours, she might not come back," and then he paused for a moment before adding: "and I think its time for you to leave."
"You want me to leave?" I asked him.
"Yes, I need you to go. I will get your ten dollars (that's what he calls Federal Reserve Notes.) back from the writer, you don't have to pay me back. Just go. "
I agreed with him, I had not meant to stay that long, but yet the shop proprietor had never asked me to leave before. I have seen many people get completely fucked up out of there mind doing very fucked up things in that place, including cutting themselves or painting their own feces on the walls (that was the singer/songwriter, actually.), and never have I seen anyone be told they need to leave. I wondered why me, why now. I know the shop proprietor has some kind of weird, special feelings for the woman, wanting to be a fatherly lover to her. He often wears a hat she gave him which reads "World's Greatest Dad." I have witnessed her on a four day, sleepless cough syrup binge, fucking someone on a couch by the stage in the shop, only to immediately go fuck the proprietor in another room while she was still wet from the first dick, just to go climb back on the first dick when the proprietor was out of steam. I silently questioned to myself why this would be different, but decided it didn't matter and left the shop.
My next memory comes from back in my studio, chain smoking cigarettes, drinking beer I bought earlier that day, reading a transcript of a conversation between the shop proprietor and the woman with the fiance with whom I have an intimate relationship. She had sent the transcript to me, the heading stating: I want you to read this.
The conversation included the shop proprietor telling her I was talking about oral sex with the singer/songwriter, and when my lady friend asked why that was any of her business, the proprietor said its OK to talk about oral sex, and he said he needed to come talk to her about it. When she said she was not going to talk about oral sex with him, he went to the pizza shop where she works (hence him giving us pizza). After he returned he told her we ate our pizza after we came out of the bathroom, invoking my name and only implying but not saying I was having bizarre, fucked up sex with the singer/songwriter, he had been trying again to get an emotional rise out of my lady friend and make her feel vulnerable. She again informed him it was none of her business what I was doing, and told him what he was doing was intentionally mean and making her uncomfortable. He tried to carry on the conversation, crafting the following messages to make he himself look vulnerable and confused, with sexually devious intent. She ended the conversation with him and then sent it to me, telling me to have a look, and telling me after I had read it that she knows I have a love for weird experiences, but this would not do. I agreed with her and told her I'd take care of it. I called the shop proprietor and told him that what he did was unacceptable and unfriendly. I then told him I would not be spending any more time with him inside or outside of his shop, and our friendship was over. "We'll see how you feel about that when you're sober," he said. My feelings have not changed with any of the various levels of sobriety I have encountered since that morning. I do not take kindly to anyone targeting my special lady with any kind of malicious intent.
That is how I will conclude this recollection of my last five day bender. I have renewed my application for Federal Student Aid, and I will be considering resuming my acquisition of a Bachelor's degree. I have a bright feeling about the future. Hopefully it will be well executed.  Until then, live long, prosper, and don't do anything I wouldn't do.

Ultra Fucked (part 1)

The Reasonless Beast broke his chain and went out on the town last night.  He took my wallet and rent money and threw it to the dogs.

Yesterday evening, an associate of mine asked if I would care to meet him for drinks at an Irish pub on Seabreeze Blvd, here in town. Seabreeze is where all the hipsters and cool cats go to jive and force laughter at each other's bullshit jokes and show off their new haircuts and fashionable punk attitudes. Its not a bad street to bring a nice woman to loosen her up for the old heave-ho later in the night after you try to make her giggle at your own bullshit jokes while sipping on poison, waiting for nervous, sexual tension to leave the room while elephants are welcome to stay as long as they'd like.

My associate picked me up at nine o'clock from a private club and music venue I had skateboarded earlier because the starter on my motorcycle had become dysfunctional and I had to smoked too many cigarettes to have the breath to push start that heavy machine.

We had sat and carried on with our Thursday tradition of drinking seventy-five cent PBR and discussing our future endeavors and current aspirations. Dollars were being fed into the jukebox by socialites and pop music kept coming out; not the sort of stuff I prefer to hear drinking in a pub, but that is just the way the cookie crumbles on Seabreeze. By the time I was a three or four pints in to the evening, my associate had a small circle of friends standing around him laughing. Talking. Touching. Kissing. I couldn't detect any valid emotion in any one, just some kind of satisfaction to be near people as desperate for social interaction as they themselves. They stood, clustered near the seat I kept at the bar.

Another three or four pints later, they had found a table large enough to hold the entire group, and so they went to sit and giggle at bullshit. They pulled me to it. I beckoned to the bartender to bring me another one. I started loosening up a little, throwing my own two cents of pure bullshit into conversations. Another hour passed, and my associate asked if I was ready to get out of there, his wife was wondering when he was coming home and the witching hour was already drawing near.

We made our way out of the pub and onto the street. There were at least six bars, or clubs or whatever you want to call them with their doors open between us and the car. Before we passed the first one, my associate leaned to me and said:

"Yo, lets stop in here and get one more drink. Just to see what's poppin'."

I didn't contest and we stepped through the doors, receiving wristbands on the way in. More loud, fresh, computerized pop songs drowned any constructive thoughts one could've had. At the bar, my associate ordered two jager-bombs and went to the bathroom so I would pay. He had been bumming cigarettes from me all night, but I bum them from him when finances are tight. Finances were indeed tight, though, so it was getting on my nerves. Both my cash supply and my nicotine supply were tight. I had over five hundred dollars in my pocket though, but all of it except for a crisp ten dollars were intended to pay the month's rent for my art studio I've been living out of.

The bartender brought our shots. "Four dollars," she said. I asked her if that were for both, and it was. Good god, that is pretty cheap for two shots on Seabreeze. I grumbled at the thought they were watered down. My associate returned and I handed him the little cup of booze and Red Bull.

"To money," he said. "To the future," I replied. Bottoms went up. My head tilted back as the mixture of booze and energy drink slid into my mouth and my tongue went to the roof of my mouth and my eyes fell shut in ecstasy. I swallowed the mouthful and a warmth spread down my throat and into my chest. Comfort spread through my nerves from my scalp down to around my face through the thin muscles, moving like electricity around my chin, down my throat, out my shoulder into my arms, hands, fingertips, through my core into my penis, down my thighs legs, feet and toes. I went to the moon and back in a split second, and when I came back, my cares, concerns, contemplations and judgemental social outlook were all gone. They stayed up there, in space. They would not return from the nether until the morning. The drink was not watered down.

I opened my eyes and they felt fierce with energy. I was in the now, in my mind, and nowhere else. I knew what I wanted. "Another?" I asked my associate.

"No man, I'm good," he said. "Fuck that," I said to myself, motioning to the sexy bartender for two more. She brought them, I paid her. A hand clapped against my back. I turned around and the bail bonds slash bounty hunter whose office neighbors my art studio was there. "What's up you crazy motherfucker?" He asked. "Nothing man, what brings you out here?" I asked in return. "Nothing man, its my birthday, and I'm trying to fuck this black chick over there." I offered him a shot, but he declined, holding up a cup of vodka. I handed a shot to the associate I came with. "Well, alright man," he said, like I was twisting his arm. I wasn't. Bottoms went up once more, and it was just as good as the first shot.

By the time my nerves had calmed from the drink, my bondsman friend was leaning into my ear. "Hey bro, we're gonna walk over to the stripclub, you wanna come?" I leaned towards my associate, telling him: "Hey, come on man, lets get out of here," and I started walking towards the exit with an unjustifiable lust for balls-out self indulgence.

My associate caught up with me outside and asked "hey man, where are we going?" We joined up with the bondsman and two big black guys. "The strip club," I replied to him. "The what?" he seemed to exclaim more than ask. "We're going to see some titties," I told him. He didn't seem to know what to say or do, and I could tell he battled with his consciousness for a moment with me, the devil, on one shoulder, and the little Puerto Rican girl he's been cheating on his wife with on the other shoulder, both whispering naughty words of seduction into his poor mind's weak will. "Alright," he said, letting out a little nervous chuckle. "Let's do this."

Before long we were across the street and going through the large double-doors into the windowless building. The bondsman and his group were welcome with fistbumps, my associate and I were asked for a five dollar cover. I paid for both of us and went to the bathroom for a much needed piss. I stood at the urinal, holding my penis, watching my piss splash on the porcelain and hoping none was ricocheting back onto my pants, when an old, frail black man with a bowtie came in and sat on a stool next to the sink behind me. I looked at him and he looked at me as I continued to tap my kidney. What the fuck, I thought. It was an odd moment. I dribbled out the last of my pissings, gave a little jiggle from my knees, and tucked my penis back where it goes, zipping it up for discretion, security and privacy. I went to the sink to wash my hands, but there was no soap dispenser. Instead, the old black man took a pinch of powder from a basket and sprinkled some upon my hands. I gave him a look that said, I'm enjoying this as much as you are, buddy, and scrubbed my hands for a second. Now I found there were no paper towels. The black man produced some from a secret location and offered them to me. "Thanks, pal," I told him. I dug into my pockets and found a dollar. I tossed it into his tip basket. He never said a word, and I am thankful for that. While I am in a dimly lit windowless establishment to pay sad, broken whores to tempt me with their body, I prefer not to have an old black man in a bowtie to oversee my pissing and hand washing or to make sure I am not doing anything illicit in the restroom. 

I joined the others at the bar. "Where'd you go, get a dance?" the bondsman asked me. "No, no, just took a piss while a black man watched." His big black buddies furred their brows towards me. I gave them a little wink before ordering a beer from a young woman in a g-string. She brought my beer and I handed her a one hundred dollar bill, asking her for some singles in my change. I gave five or ten of those singles to my associate and took my beer to the stage. He did not follow. I stuck two dollars in the collar of my shirt and sat there like a pervert for a bit, watching naked, young women shove their pussies and tits into other men's faces while sipped my beer and sucked on a cigarette like it was my own cock and only friend, until I grew tired of waiting for my turn with the ladies and went back to the bar.

I remained at the bar, mostly naked women came and went, trying to hustle drinks out of me or to get me to pay them bring me to the back room and take off the rest of their clothes and grind on me and clap their tall heels together in front of my face, but I blocked their attempts just for the fun and sport of telling whores no.

Somewhere around here I remember receding into my mind just long enough to find a nice comfy intertube to climb in and shove off to drift along the lazy river in my mental paradise as I sipped on another fresh, delicious beer. I lit a cigarette and took sweet, slow drags as I surveyed the room through my glasses. There was finally some good music coming out of the speakers, whatever it was, and there were at least four sets of fine, suckable titties up on the stage, all accompanied by curving little asses, tight bodies, and a pair of hands gripping long, shiny poles, hoisting the rest of the packages up into the air to thrust, seduce, satisfy, luring cash right out of pockets. Can't swipe a credit card in any stripper's ass that I've ever seen, not that I've got any working plastic, anyhow.

The next wave of events is still a little hazy, but things clear up after I started drinking bourbon. My bondsman friend said he was leaving the strip club, and I asked where the birthday boy was going. He said he was off to the bottle club. I asked my associate if he wanted to go, but he was throwing in the towel. Last calls were about to start echoing through bars and clubs all over town, and the bottle club was just opening it's doors. I grabbed my longboard out of my associate's car and hitched a ride with the bondsman and the big black dudes. We dropped off one black dude along the way.

To be finished soon.