Young Writers Society

You can always take two hits of acid and feel OK but whats the point of feeling OK when your expecting to take off. I usually stay away from a hallucinogenic type of drug, they make me feel like a completely different person, which would usually be fine, especially if that other person was someone like Marlon Brando or Al Pacino , both who in my opinion hit their peak in the Godfather. But this is irrelevant. When I take acid I am over powered by the recurring image of a dirty stuttering dog living in a McDonald's trash can. Good thing I am hungry and have already ingested so much bad shit that what is another Big Mac going to do. This dirty feeling isn't so much bad as it is expected. The insight and overall mind fuck that comes from unexplored visual and audio imagery is usually so fantastical that the body needs to feel dirty for a while to get back to a normal state of routine. A give and take, input and output, a mosaic of emotional and physical responses.

Whats one or two nights in jail. A dirty place to sleep. A cave of demoralized human spirit and filth. At least the phone call doesn't cost a thing. And as long as the crime is not a felony then who cares. A couple nights in a state labeled concrete cell and a armful of fines, don't equal the experience never happening.
The scum that you meet in an overnight drunk tank or jail cell are interesting in their own way. It's all about how you look at things. I believe its good to mingle with ignorant degenerates every once in a while especially in a closed environment, where subjectivity is ruled out and the space provided is the hallmark. It's nice to see how far it is possible to go. I'm still working on discovering that. I thought a few nights living on the street strung out on speed and robbing innocent ma and pop stores for dollar snacks was low as any person could get but now I believe until you have become black out drunk, murdered your girlfriend, and wake up in a jail cell with a life sentence and no possibility to get any material to commit suicide with, before that happens you will be alright. I should start a book, Top Reason to Not Drink. Chapter 1. The scum in jail probably see me that same way I see them. Clowns we are. We thought we could be ring masters and trapeze artists of society, doing what we want, when we wanted and not looking the consequences in the eye. Like a stage created by the actor and the lights blocking out an audience of pill poppers and talent show judges.
It was only two hours ago that I was speeding down the center of Broadway in Nashville, Tn, balancing the chassy of my car down the middle of the yellow lines at seventy miles an hour with a beer in one hand a black cat in the other,and a camera on the dash board which I plan to sell to channel four news in case there is a slow news day. These acts are not random in the least bit. The plan i had was to start the day, around six pm. And do as many stereotypical unlucky things as possible and at the end of the day jump from a two story building and see who catches me. This is the first one I got to but soon as I break out of this place, I am going to continue down this idiotic bucket list of insanity until either they give me the electric chair or until my family is given some kind of diplomatic immunity so that they never have to pay taxes ever again. Diplomats is a amorphous term that will need explaining later.
I hope the cat is alright. I really don't care but maybe some little girl would like a thrill loving black cat some day. Due to a faulty memory from smoking copious amounts of weed and drinking Early Times whiskey for the past two years straight I have no idea where the cat even came from. All I somewhat think I may know is that the cat is named whiskers, only because he or she is curious. Don't get me wrong I love animals of all kinds but like every other domesticated animal or person for that matter, we all have a master to follow. I'm glad a don't have the memory to know who the hell my master is and if I did I would probably poison him or her in the night and take their spot only for the opportunity to lead a caravan of crazed lunatics on any mission of my choosing. We would storm the white house or the blue house for that matter. There would be no need for a true objective except for the unity of collective malice. Here I come George W. Bush. It's pay back time.

This is kind of boring. You don't really tell any stories or story and it's just about this guy being stupid. Of course, you could argue that that was the point and he was supposed to be stupid and that this work was supposed to have no point, other than a couple of observations about criminals being strange, but that doesn't stop it from being a complete and utter waste of time. I was hoping for it to rise from its mediocrity and end on some sort of timeless statement, but instead it just ended on a note against someone who's not even in power anymore. So much for that. Anyway, next time, pick a more interesting character next time when you do stream of consciousness. This guy is just boring.