Typical

Yesterday I developed a touch of nerves when I realised all those I considered friends were leeches who wanted to suck me dry. Since renouncing luxury, I've been hopelessly alone and have, on several occasions, relapsed into pretending. On Saturday night I dressed in bright colours--like a paradisaical bird--and danced with a girl who, through the fog of drink and muffle of noise, resembled the love of my life. I asked her to call me The Elektro King; she did. We danced strangely till the world disappeared. When I woke, after a night of forgetting, I was surprised to stumble upon my soiled clothes arranged in a symbol--an admittedly sloppy Helm of Awe--upon my living room floor.


I had to use all my socks

As I made my own tea, I wondered if the man who created this symbol--that damned Elektro King--was pretending or possessed: this seemed to me the fundamental difference between idiot and artist. I thought about it for a moment and wondered in which camp I should place myself before growing enamored with my chocolate-coated biscuits and staring blankly out the window.

Edgar and The Girl

"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.

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.