"Nigel are you awake?" whispered the psychotherapist with whom I had drunk heavily and punched holes in the walls last night. I opened my eyes a tad--the room was sewage green and brown--and I decided I hated both the physical world and this Norwegian buffoon who seemed good fun when we kicked at some woman's door. We pegged her so accurately when we called her a middle-class whore but we never thought about what we are ourselves. "Psst. Nigel. Are you awake?"
"Go to hell, Edgar," I groaned. All that study of the psyche and he can't tell I just want him to fuck off.
Last night we had a good time. Inspired by booze we conquered the city as the perfect team. But now when I looked around his office at the meat-eating plants and American Indian decor I only wanted to fight.
As I stumbled off the couch, I looked hard into his eyes and, without breaking my gaze, polished off a nearby bottle while assuming a wrestling stance. But he looked so frightened and pathetic in his soiled corduroy blazer I couldn't be bothered to pounce. I merely left without paying.
As I passed the door of the middle-class whore I felt proud, disgusted, but, most of all, hungover. I remembered her perfect hair, dress, and teeth; I remembered her calculatedly phony conversation and smile. When she rejected me, I laughed hysterically. Of course she probably didn't think it very funny when we kicked at her door, but, as I thought about it objectively, I decided, yes, it was, objectively, funny.
I spent the remainder of the day in my apartment dim-witted and watching spaghetti westerns.
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
A bender remembered, the end, Part 1
The house is empty. Acoustically, it is phenomenal, and the echoes are free making me feel that all my ghosts are purged. Out of the darkness and filth of a lost weekend, many truths were revealed, and what was formerly a confused ball of tangled twine now seems a straight road leading to who-knows-where. I'll close the door behind me and won't look back; it has been my motto since viewing the Pennebaker film.
I slammed--slammed!--a bottle of absinthe before walking to Natahsa's flat. Solemnly I walked through Gibbon's forest, now empty, and remembered the blonde girl I thought would be my new beginning but who I never heard from again. (But I never really loved her; she just reminded me of Julie Christie). I pulled my flask from the secret pocket of my coat and slammed--slammed!--a little more. The moon was yellow and there was three of them. Though elated and internally spitting swears, I knew this was not like other benders. It was much more philosophical.
As I exited the gates I danced like a serpent that had other serpents for arms. When I arrived at the flat, Natasha looked slutty, but not in a gaudy way: she simply dressed unabashedly, refusing to hide the sensual animal lurking beneath.
"Hello sweetheart," I said as I walked in, and I slapped her lovely bottom.
"Nigel! That is no way to treat a lady."
"A lady? Where? All I see is a whore."
I seemed to hit a nerve with that one.
"Nigel," she said. "I thought we could make this work."
"Fuck off," said I. "You're a whore, baby, so let's stop pretending. You're nothing. Come on. You're on the meter you filthy bird. Act like I want you to because you're mine."
She had a tear in her eye but I wiped it away and told her to get serious. We called a taxi and moved on to the dinner party.
I slammed--slammed!--a bottle of absinthe before walking to Natahsa's flat. Solemnly I walked through Gibbon's forest, now empty, and remembered the blonde girl I thought would be my new beginning but who I never heard from again. (But I never really loved her; she just reminded me of Julie Christie). I pulled my flask from the secret pocket of my coat and slammed--slammed!--a little more. The moon was yellow and there was three of them. Though elated and internally spitting swears, I knew this was not like other benders. It was much more philosophical.
As I exited the gates I danced like a serpent that had other serpents for arms. When I arrived at the flat, Natasha looked slutty, but not in a gaudy way: she simply dressed unabashedly, refusing to hide the sensual animal lurking beneath.
"Hello sweetheart," I said as I walked in, and I slapped her lovely bottom.
"Nigel! That is no way to treat a lady."
"A lady? Where? All I see is a whore."
I seemed to hit a nerve with that one.
"Nigel," she said. "I thought we could make this work."
"Fuck off," said I. "You're a whore, baby, so let's stop pretending. You're nothing. Come on. You're on the meter you filthy bird. Act like I want you to because you're mine."
She had a tear in her eye but I wiped it away and told her to get serious. We called a taxi and moved on to the dinner party.
Thursday, February 12, 2009
One Last Bender, Part 3
I am preparing for the night by listening to a mixture of Leonard Cohen and The Rolling Stones. I shall pick Natasha up at 10:00. I have spent the last two hours doing shots and resistance training. Resonating through me is a strange combination of swagger and euphoria. As I type these words, I pace like a maniac--it is impossible to sit!--and I perform invigorating air punches. Take that! Bam! Bam! Kaplow!
All my finest clothes, I have given away; all, that is, except my favourite suit. It is a simple but elegant black number I purchased on Savile Row. Two buttons, single-breasted, simple. It is so beautiful on its own, one can forgo a pocket square. To the untrained eye, it looks like nothing, but to those with taste, it is sure to produce a sensual elation.
Every hair, though casually tussled, is exactly in its right place. I shall not let Natasha so much as touch me. Indeed I plan to drop her the first chance I get because I have come to the firm conclusion that she is an enormous bitch.
I am late, but to hell time. At the moment I am slightly drunk--call it Level 3. I feel brilliant and wild--like a lion--both animal and king.
All my finest clothes, I have given away; all, that is, except my favourite suit. It is a simple but elegant black number I purchased on Savile Row. Two buttons, single-breasted, simple. It is so beautiful on its own, one can forgo a pocket square. To the untrained eye, it looks like nothing, but to those with taste, it is sure to produce a sensual elation.
Every hair, though casually tussled, is exactly in its right place. I shall not let Natasha so much as touch me. Indeed I plan to drop her the first chance I get because I have come to the firm conclusion that she is an enormous bitch.
I am late, but to hell time. At the moment I am slightly drunk--call it Level 3. I feel brilliant and wild--like a lion--both animal and king.
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