Spitting blood up from an unknown source (my lungs?). There is a demon inside of us and it travels like a slow spider, a great immobile blues cannon. The way the sky looks open makes us cringe with inferiority. We are plump and breath polluted air as if it connected us to the earth. The grey volcanic ash does nothing positive in the blood stream. (The marijuana flown in across the seas that is intermixed with volcanic ashes. A spiritual trip where one is high as sagarmatha and still climbing. But this high you don't need oxygen tanks. You need to listen to the doobie brothers.) Just realized I missed Dance Gavin Dance last night without any thought. This is what alcohol can do. You pay for it and nurture it with different concoctions of light and dark liquids, sometimes ice, sometimes latte flavoring, sometimes beer. Kamikaze. We bombed some tanks. You get along just fine as it heightens certain aspects of socializing. You are a confidence exuding machine. Don't get tongue tied. Don't lose your footing. Don't lose your head. One wrong move and everyone will be under the assumption, although soon forgotten, that you are too drunk. Why get so plastered without purpose? Not even a real story to tell. I vomited up confessions at the end of a night. It is always sad to see that last spark in me attempt to write something as the sunrises. There is a demon that wants out and it claws through my skin from the inside out. My fingernails get dirty. I fall on my face. That liquid confidence is now liquid shame. It is the socialization. I will never sculpt a summer bod if I keep this up. Contradiction here in that I will obtain new identification shortly and I will be old enough to go out with a bang. I believe, in my heart, that I will have more fun and waste more money given different environments and people. Go out! Do it! There's live music to be seen. There are drinks to order for 5 dollars a piece. There are all sorts of deals and coupons to be discovered. There are girls to flirt with. There are fights to provoke. Bouncers to sneak past. (A fuzzy navel sounds pretty good right now doesn't it?) Only if you have one with me baby doll. You show off your flat stomach, wearing a too-short shirt. Too small. It fits like skin and seductively, light is shown onto her shape. There are curves and straight lines. Contrast shadow and interdimensional depth. The shirt is black with some sort of design. I read the shirt but it appears I am ogling. In a lecherous manner, they say. I lose myself in a daydream with this lady but nothing in me has the confidence to make a move or say anything so I stumble. No confidence. Down the street to get to work on my next debauchery of a conversation, with some other girl with a nice shirt design. The pressure here is felt so much harder. One must actively seek out relationships otherwise they will never happen. I've tried, sure. But I am not happy at the moment.
I must exit the desert with stories. With warm nostalgia. With no regret. I will have climbed and conquered many things. I will have exercised those demons and filled the sleeper agents with caffeine. I will have amazing marks, my body a piece of work, my mind full and my eyes wide. I will have gone to an art show or a music show in Phoenix. Why haven't spent any time in Phoenix??
