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what my head feels like (more)

Sobered up in the afternoon, visions of last night’s Christmas pudding dancing in my head. And that damnable bird is still banging on my window. The cat comes in, looks at the bird and then falls asleep on top of the mosquito net. The bird is still flapping and Damian has now taken over half of the bed. Last night had another bird banging on my cell-phone but I was too wasted to type anything more than ‘I am wasted’. A baby owl ran into the window downstairs. And crows cut me off in traffic. I have been eating more chicken than usual, but I didn’t know the bastards were so organized. When I wake up my Fruit Loops are still spinning so I take some Tylenol and watch TV. To tell the truth, I haven’t gotten this deeply BAC’d since high school. Some profoundly disreputable youths wanted to hang out on a Monday night and I succumed to the peer pressure. Now I feel like I’m on a fucking sailboat.

Went to Barefoot for a meeting cause it’s as close as I’ve come to an office. The Wij doesn’t have Internet and various animals are trying to kill me at home. There’s a kid’s birthday party and techno music is blaring. I don’t remember listening to too much trance when I was young, but whaddya I know. I used to wear sweatpants and turtlenecks and listen to, like, Raffi. Kids nowadays wear Abercrombie and Fitch and listen to 50 Cent. The clowns are kinda disturbing, but everyone’s wearing process colors – cyan and magenta. Barefoot is actually about as productive as study hall with all the people, but I guess that’s the fun part. Then I start drinking beer, which is the beginning of the end.

Sometimes SL feels like a W. Somerset Maugham colonial novel. People in isolated bungalows, waiting for the next ship to come in so they can tell stories and speak English again. If you find talent here you have to hold on to it for dear life. Everybody real is either dead or gone. You can hang around the Wendt or Gallery, but those souls are dearly departed. Neelan is just some chalk on the street, and half the people you meet turn into email addresses.

Then I’ve gotten in a car somewhere and like 14 drinks later I realize that I’m fucking wasted. Try to answer a text message and accidently delete everything. And that lamprais was not the best idea. And why I am I drinking stuff I don’t know what it is. It’s kinda nice to be out of the city though. There are still places you can go where you can see the paddy fields. But I think I must have stopped saying anything interesting hours ago. Hopefully everyone else is too knackered to notice that my brain has gone into an induced coma so as to keep this breathing and digesting thing going. Wake up on top of my sheets with only the vaguest idea of how I got there. I haven’t finished that ad or that document and I’m really scared of my phone.