Coming down from GHB haze, still reeking of the smoke filled club, dick still tasting like the saliva and marijuana of her greedy kiss, I discovered that you had died.

I flew on a plane, drove the familiar roads to nowhere, opened creaky door, and walked into the room, long ago abandoned by light and joy. Laughter and happiness, now replaced by strange plastic bottles, a filthy ashtray, smears and stains—all photocopies of a past steeped in so much more dignity. A room empty but still filled with you. I room suffocating me as if your arms were wrapped around my neck.

I scrubbed. I scrubbed. And I kept fucking scrubbing. I felt as if I was like those obsessive compulsive children who clean their hands until their pink, or as a scorpion pinned against a corner so it stings itself to somehow end the stress. I scrubbed.

As I reflect, I can still smell the mold, and mildew. I can.
But what’s even colder, even more horrifying, is that I also smell old spice, and a cigarette, and something vaguely resembling home.

Imago777 said:

Did you taste your own dick?

Imago777 said:

Did you taste your own dick?

bkw said:

Doesn't everybody.

Where did this come from, lad?

Nero said:

Why is there a picture of Corey Feldman on your avatar?

Imago777 said:

Honey, that's Elvis.

Nero said:

Was he in Lost Boys?

Keep writing the story. I wanna read more.

bkw said:

Doesn't everybody.

Keep writing the story. I wanna read more.

Imago777 said:

I used to able to do that. Got pretty good at it until I sprained my neck. I had to tell everyone I slept on it wrong.

Xagain said:

Blow yer own horn!

HamsterHuey said:

Imago777 said:

Coming down from GHB haze, still reeking of the smoke filled club, dick still tasting like the saliva and marijuana of her greedy kiss, I discovered that you had died.

I flew on a plane, drove the familiar roads to nowhere, opened the same creaky door, and walked into a room, long ago abandoned by light and joy. Laughter and happiness, now replaced by strange plastic bottles, a filthy ashtray, smears and stains—all photocopies of a past steeped in so much more dignity. A room empty but still filled with you. I room suffocating me as if your arms were wrapped around my neck.

I scrubbed. I scrubbed. And I kept fucking scrubbing. I felt as if I was like those obsessive compulsive children who clean their hands until they're pink, or as a scorpion pinned against a corner so it stings itself to somehow end the stress. I scrubbed.

As I reflect, I can still smell the mold, and mildew. I can.
But what’s even colder, even more horrifying, is that I also smell old spice, and a cigarette, and something vaguely resembling home.


.
[Edited 7/24/05 21:00pm]

Imago777 said:

Fkn marvelous,,,
Excellent piece.

1LUV said:

I really need to finish it.

What is this, revive an old thread day?

It is good though. I read all your blogs on myspace too.