| TumorAttitude |
07-11-2010 04:51 AM |
I woke up in a public bathroom surrounded by seemingly the grossest things Smithy's body contained. I could tell it was his barf. No one else had barf that shade of green. Maybe pixies. Maybe people that only eat foodcoloring and lighter fluid. Them and Smithy. I could tell it was Smithy's shit too. I don't know how, I just could. It smelled like him. I stood up. I was pretty much clean. There was some shit in my hair and my legs felt wet. I felt my neck. My ring was still on the chain around my neck. I'm glad nobody took it. Lord know's its not valuable but people steal. And Smithy himself took it to fuck with me once.
My senses slowly came back completely and I smelled it. It sunk in. I'm surrounded by vomit, shit, and piss. I felt around for my bag and realized it was between my legs, also mostly barf-less, and then feeling deeper between my legs, relizing that Smithy had wedged my compact mirror vertically in my panties. This probably sounds rape-y to you, but to me, its a thoughtful gesture. The smell overtook my entire existence and I had no less then seven mini-panic attacks. My eyes teared up. It was horrible. The human body is an ugly thing, a terrible, disgusting thing on the inside. You forget how awful the indsides of it is when you're having sex with a beautiful boy or eating dinner or putting on your makeup. But you can't really forget when you're in a bathroom stall and the floor and walls around you are covered in the grossest, most horrible liquids a person can produce. I saw the chunks in his turds and all the blood inside my body went cold. I grabbed the mirror and looked at myself....
Staring at my reflection made it easier to breath again, and then gradually sit up, then stand up. I live in a world full of only pleasent textures. Pretty colors. Nice things. I smelled my wrist. I forgot what perfume I was using but I knew the name of it ment "air time" in french. It was a little strong but it was so much prettier and more palettable then the scent of Smithy's upchuck. I stepped over the barf and got out of the stall.
I counted from 1 to 10 about a dozen times and then washed barf out of my hair in the sink. My makeup didn't really need applied, thank god, and my breath was still minty. Probably because I haven't eaten in about 72 hours, but who the hell is counting. After washing the light, lingering odor of barf off of me, I waltzed out of the bathroom and walked across the city to Smithy's apartment. I had a key and let myself in.
It smelled better then I expected. The people with the apartment next to him taxidermy animals or something, I fucking swear. Its not fun. And it was clean too. Smithy was sitting awake, waiting for me, I guess. He wasn't wearing a shirt and I noticed that he had something of a farmer's tan and a few cuts on the arm that wasn't tattooed.
The memory of last night came back to me. He dropped acid and went to a club owned and populated by the local Nazi punks, but it had gone out of bussiness the week before so Smithy was all alone in a big empty club full of vaguely hidden swastikas. Some friends and I followed him, all of us sober. I dropped on the way there, and when it kicked in, I think I tried to pull my hair out. See, I'm blonde and when you're on acid and in the middle of a room decorated with swastikas and mirrors, fitting the aryan ideal seems even more creepy then it already is. I think my buddy Liz sedated me because I still had my hair and all my fingers, but the last thing I remember is Smithy pooping and vomiting on me and screaming that he wanted me to love all of him, even his insides. I don't know if my friends made him aim his bodily fluids elsewhere or cleaned me before I woke up. Either way, I love my friends.
Smithy and I spent the rest of the morning cuddling. We need a new dealer.
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