Dry Heaves

I couldn't get into the show because I didn't have cash on me and because I'm a pussy little bitch. I sat in my car and listened to the blaring leak of their music through the barriers. Double-bass and snares, brotherly love, a murmured bass, and the squeals of reason. They were all there and I was locked in my car and I wanted them to drown me to the bottom of their sound and away from mine. I slouched. I hunched. I stared blankly at a lifeless parking lot and cursed the white lights running down. How is it that I can find a way to hate myself at every kind of location and occasion? I pulled out the last piece I've been saving and burned my insides cold, sitting on top of the drummer's tiny car. I took my time. I dragged intently. I stayed still in that moment long enough for me to wobble upright as I hopped back on the ground and walked to my car. Immediately I heard and felt the helpless growl of my stomach. Whatever it was, it rushed around my body like a plague. My head spun dizzily, my throat gagged up foam, and my stomach frantically pumped itself to convulsion. I opened my door, sat inside, closed it, opened it, puked, then wrapped myself in a ball. I drove to In-n-Out because food solves things. I spent 20 minutes puking in the bathroom, taking the opportunity to puke in both stalls, while people lined up behind the doors. The drive back was the hellish nightmare of Andre Nickatina. Cocaine raps and jazzy bass lines and the devil. By the time I got to her house, I collapsed my body on the couch, shook until my breathing lost its pace, and eventually had soup through a bendy straw. And after giving myself just a few short minutes of feeling alright again, I dove straight back to ganja and Bacardi. When I was conscious again, I awoke to some petty altercation that weighed the world for some reason. My heart raced and thudded against my chest, and all I wanted to do was rush the fuck out. Once the door shut behind me, I knew I should always leave.