I remember college. It started when I was nineteen. I distinctly remember packing my bags up into my piece of shit car, moving out of the roach infested slum of a place on the East side of Chicago I was renting (and somehow surviving in) and heading for Campaign. I studied finance at the University of Champaign/Urbana. I graduated with a 3.87 GPA and not much else, but somehow (even without extra-circulars, social skills, or the capacity to give a shit about anything), I got an accounting gig at Newton and Newton a law firm in uptown St. Louis. I continue to work there to this very day. I make deadlines and business meetings. I file my taxes on time. I help Mrs. Simms the little old lady across from me, with her groceries…This all I am able to tell you about myself.
I have no recollection of anything past any of what I just described. One day I woke up in Chicago, I could walk and talk. I could read. I could wipe my ass and cook my own meals but I couldn’t tell you how. I don’t know any of my family members. I couldn’t tell you if they were alive or dead. Who knows? I guess all that matters is that I’m alive and relatively healthy. It’s also nice to be able to make enough money to support my…habits, and it goes without saying that I have a lot of them.
I have a shrink. She says that I’m a “mixed Bi-Polar type with a personality disorder or two thrown in there.” It’s probably bullshit. I mean aside from the giant gaps in my memory and my various creative endeavors I’m a genuinely nice, harmless guy. I mean I’m an accountant for Christ’s sake. A spineless little shit, hiding behind my fake corporate smile, behind my thrift store suit and tie…But yeah, I’ve been seeing this shrink. She’s a short tan woman. I think she’s Mexican but it’s hard to tell. She’s got shoulder-length hair, dresses pretty casual for a shrink. She came in one day wearing yoga pants and a North Face sweater…Oh, and her ass. Her ass is flawless. I’d love to plow into that (ah yeah, bareback. No need for a condom, just my shaft on her stink. Rubbing and ripping until that fateful moment), but I digress. Most of what I tell her is a front. I haven’t given her my real name. You see, I carry around random business cards I’ll get them from all sorts of places and I pass those off to people that I meet. I’ve gotten pretty good at playing some of the roles lawyers, exterminators, cowboys, Indians makes no difference to me. So I’m telling her that I can’t sleep. That my wife left me that my garbage can is trying to steal money from me. It’s great. It makes for a great laugh. I should probably take it more seriously…haven’t gotten around to telling her about my memory gaps. Oh well.
One potential issue I may have is the fact that I’m a sucker for drugs... The thing I like most about meth is that it keeps you awake so you can drink all day. I’ll wake up (if I was even able to sleep the night before) and take a big rip of dope. I prefer smoking it, crease up some tin foil, throw a pinch or five in the middle, light that sucker up and… bliss. Then I’ll sip vodka at work all day. I’ll have a couple more hits on my lunch break and a couple more to straighten me out for the ride home. If I get to jittery from the meth, I usually have a few Lortabs or Klonopin on hand. Then, after I get home on those cardboard- cutout evenings, (you know what I’m talking about, those quiet uneventful evenings. The evenings where normal people walk their dogs and go out drinking and watch network television… boring senseless evenings), I’ll down a bottle of Vick’s 44 dry cough solution (30mgs of Dextromethorphan HBR per 10 mls. of disgusting goodness), and ride the wave for the remainder of the night…I’ve never understood why anyone would want to be sober. I settled into this routine during my junior year of college and it’s worked great for me. I guess some people can’t handle their shit. One of my dealers overdosed last Friday. I went to his house the following Sunday, (after church) and raided the place. I knew right where to look, second drawer to the left of his kitchen cabinet. It’s got a fake panel in back, that’s his hot-spot and it’s always filled to the brim with pain pills…or it was anyway.
When I get wasted and tweaked out, I like to fight.
“Hey faggot!” I yell to a rough, yet unsuspecting looking man walking out of the bars late at night.
“What the fuck did you just say to me?”
“You heard me. You cum guzzling faggot. Suck any dick lately?”
He throws one punch. It hits my cheek and grazes the end of my nose. As his shoulder and back slide towards me. I give him a nice punch in the gut, just enough to knock the wind out of him. Once he falls down, I kick him in the head and walk away, dick rock-hard, hands shaking…But they don’t always fall down. Just the other night, I got a Heineken bottle smashed over my face. It cut my lip open. I woke up with a shard of glass in my head and a load of dried jizz in my pants. I slowly fingered the wound for a while. I could hear it rustling around inside my skin, grazing the bone fortunately it hadn’t poked through the skull into my brain. No vegetable stew for me tonight, (but all kidding aside, I wouldn’t wish that on anyone. I knew a guy who was in motorcycle accident once…but that’s a whole other story), and then in one swift motion yanked the foreign body out. It didn’t bleed as much as I thought it would but it was enough. I took my shirt off and clamped it down on my bleeding head. I kicked a bum’s dog in the ribcage on my way home. It ran off like a little (wait for it) bitch…I really wish I could remember my childhood.
So there I was walking through Laclede's Landing, Shirtless, horny and strung out. I decided that I needed some good sex to get my head straight. I went to payphone and called up my favorite hooker, Victoria. I told her to meet me at my place. I stumbled back to my car, popped in my favorite CD (Kind of Blue by Miles Davis. I think we can all agree that it’s an absolute treasure of an album, no matter where your musical tastes lie, you have to be able to appreciate the subtle ambience and mournfully atmospheric qualities to Davis’ work… an undisputed virtuoso in regard to both technique and subtly), driving to my high-rise apartment complex, chatting up the doorman and showering, I was ready to fuck.
Victoria was young, twenty-ish with green eyes and curly hair. She had mole on her inner thigh that I always licked before I started eating her out (Ladies: we love it just as much as you do…I see no shame in admitting that). I got to work on her pussy and after a few minuets of the aforementioned she was ready to take it up a notch. I dove in. Stroke….stroke…stroke, keeping a steady rhythm as her hips wiggled and spasmed. I had her get on top and choke me out a little bit with my designer store leather belt. The same belt that I’d used in years past, to tie off with (I don’t shoot up anymore, it’s too messy). She kept her bush neat. A lot of hookers let it go but hers was pristine, the classic landing strip. You see, Vicki was what you would call, high class ass. She made you work for it and she took pride in her…profession. It was admirable. That and she wasn’t (as far as I could tell anyway) a junky. If she was than she did a hell of a good job hiding her track marks. A few quick pumps and $350 later Vicki is out the door and I’m collapsed in my bed, I peel the used rubber off of my dick and toss it in the waste basket (swish, swish). I’m probably gonna try to score some meth now. I’ve got tomorrow (aside from my visit with the head shrink at 2:00pm) off so I feel a little celebration is in order…It’s all just another day in the life of a mild mannered accountant.