Spiced Rum

I feel fragile... tired of long nights and early mornings, except that I hardly ever get less than seven hours sleep. I'm just old, bearded, stoned, and thirsty for a way out of my cage, my apathy.

Jason and Bill are still awake in Hell Suite. J was building art: a sculptural comment on gender roles. A mustard penis, which finds itself impotently lodged partway in a hot-sauce-and-bicardi snatch. Another masterpiece.

I should sleep. Clinic tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow. A man's life is measured out in sweat and toil, and at the end, the ravens get him. But this solo in Dogs is awfully depressing, and I'm awfully stoned.

Better than drunk, though... as long as it stays fairly euphoric. I remember Christmas vacation, drowning in my parents' lives, and I had that bottle of spiced rum, party size. Then I realized that I couldn't go back to school and leave it, and I didn't think I could finish it.

I tried. Mixed and chased it with sparkling cider, a noble elixer. Read, listened to music, watched some TV.

When I woke up, "Oh, a bed..." I had planned to stay up all night. I couldn't turn my head to look at the bottle, because my bladder was about to explode.

That sounded unpleasant, so I lurched up and stumbled to the bathroom. About halfway there, a black hand reached up from the floor and jabbed me in the eyes.

The floor seemed comfortable. Eventually, my sight came back. Just like nitrous, except no waw-waw... well, maybe there was, what do I know? I pissed, showered, and put on some music.

Later, mom saw the bottle. She started to lecture me on my drinking. "That bottle was almost full the other day!"

"No it wasn't... less than half."

"It's almost empty now!"

"Yeah, I know. I think I'll go back to Mudd in a day or two."