Well, here it is again. I can’t seem to stop myself. I could leave these thoughts on a lonely page and hope that one day they get burned, but I don’t. It’s helpful to purge one’s mind and put it all out in ones and zeros. And I could trust them to the cloud and double lock the access with answers to questions that even I could not later guess, but I don’t.
So be warned. The things I have witnessed and will now write are not comforting in retrospect and more likely than not should have distressed everyone at the time they occurred, but they didn’t. And I hope this isn’t taken as a complaint because I truly seek only to understand. But that may, in fact, be my biggest flaw.
I hope never again to succumb to whatever kind of weakness and instability that takes hold of me on Saturday nights but those demons have their own demands and I am a poor negotiator. I will not get into the horrors of the Unlucky Butt Charm trail. They are mostly known and anyway, I ended up leaving it for an emergency meeting with Fedora and RottenBoneHer. Both are most piquant and have great insight and strong opinions on a wide range of live and thorny issues. But it’s also clear that neither of them should ever be put in charge of anything. The truth is, they had to leave the hunt and hide from the authorities. They had already had too much to drink and at Howie’s behest, had crawled in the bedroom window of some seldom seens. They sat on their chests reciting dirty limericks and dumping beer/glitter on them, all the while slapping their faces with long, floppy dildos. Howie would have been caught but he pulled some ninja moves and then hid in a neighbor’s doghouse for the next 12 hours.
But nevermind all that: It is the general disturbance afterward that I need to discuss.
The enervating heat of the place did not help and in the end, Ockham would probably say it explains it all, but the strangeness of the space lingers in me yet. I have never know Jizzy to park herself beneath a coffee table for the evening and arise only for a down down, but given all the green Irish fervor it may have been the most reasonable and soothing place to be. A big part of me wanted it for myself.
I guess I’m putting this out there to see if things are still bright in other’s memories.
I believe it was the case, that a large strapping man did kneel before CoCo and become knighted Vodka Douchebag, and there was very little questioning, ceremony or discussion about it. That was unsettling, to say the least. I have not witnessed many of these things, but to my mind, it all happened too fast and felt oddly viviparous for such an acknowledged reptilian council. I really should have left right then. But then there was another naming. Yet another odd halfling stood before our intemperate inquisitor. She was asked a great many things and much was learned. She has a vast knowledge of bull semen that simply could not be ignored and yet somehow she did not get named Semen Sommelier! I can’t remember what sad handle she was weighted with nor do I care to know its lurid significance. The discarded opportunity left me quite shaken. And then later, when I was told by two young lovers that my name had been taken in vain (or defense as perspective might dictate) I began to feel I had somehow damaged things I was entrusted to at least be cautious with, and yet had absolutely no memory of ever being assigned responsibility!
And that is when I left. I had to get out of there. I did not want to know what the last in the series of cruel circumstances would be. But I guarantee that those that stayed spent the rest of the night flailing about in a sea of drunken miseries and awoke the next day in anguish and stupor, tormented by flashbacks and trying to create lies more palatable than the reality of what they’d done.