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shiny objects

Thursday, July 01, 2004


Last night I indulged in the corse, surreptitious pleasures of insomnia. Around 2am, I left my house on foot for the sterile flourescent ambiance of Walgreens. I sought only a pack of Marlboro menthols, but left with a few rich nuggets of wisdom courtesy of Albin, the big, black, graveyard-shift cashier. While I stood dumbfounded before the counter, he discoursed on smoking, psychology, emotional upheaval, and God. Aparently, God has some big plans - and even bigger surprises - for me in the future. I say to God: "bring it on, biznitch."

I exited into the landscape of alien night: looming trees writhing in the breeze; dank pools of mist, natural gas, and fermented rain water; swift, skittering shadows; roaches and bats; the calls of sleepless birds, toads, vagrants.

With a flourish, I lit my first cigarette and trotted into the courtyard of Klein High School. A drainpipe enabled access to the covered walkway's sturdy roof. There, I smoked for over half an hour, periodically blowing rings of blue vapor that hovered and spun like so many delicate thoughts.

Some time later, I was overcome by the need to pee. Seeing no one about, I let fly on the side of the pavillion. Never before have I known such vulgar satisfaction.

Never again need I tread those halls. I think I've finally internalized that fact.


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