(AUTHOR NOTE: The five of you kind enough to subscribe to this blog may have been waiting with bated breath for the second installment of my three-part psychedelic musical opus. Unfortunately, the only one I have in the bag is this short section that, like the rest of the piece, is unfinished. But it’s funny still and deserves told in addition to Part I. I may not finish my trilogy and to be fair, I’m saving a lot of my current work for actual publication so you’ll probably see less of it on here. That being said, you’ll probably see little personal essays pop up from now and then if I’m not busy wasting good material on social media. The whore. If you haven’t already, please check out WeeklyWeirdMonthly.com where you can find all kinds of projects I’ve been dipping into and helping to release. Also, I just found out that Cunty Couture is a Drag Queen from PA. I hope she doesn’t write.)
The One Time I Ate a Bunch of Mushrooms at an Outdoor Music Festival: Part II
After the awful exchange it occurred to me that I hadn’t eaten anything in two days. A line of cocaine at the strangest brunch ever wouldn’t suffice. Normally the urgency of starving would be obvious and I’d simply eat anything, but I had taken more mushrooms mere minutes ago and knew I had just enough time to consume something before I lost my appetite again. Every truck had a line. Every truck but Gourdough’s.
I’d harbored interest. There was a rumored bacon maple doughnut roughly the size of a small cake. I looked at the short line and saw the familiar sight of fat assholes. Not in the literal sense, obviously, but I saw my people. The shameless ones. Or, respectfully, The Shameless Ones.
The rumors were true, it was the biggest doughnut I’d ever seen topped with a handful of full slices of bacon. For $5. I felt a palpitation looking at it. I don’t even care for maple flavoring, but I dove in. Exactly three bites later the mushrooms began their invasion. I had underestimated my timeframe. I found the nearest trashcan, spit out the bite I was currently chewing, and violently threw the small boat of grease into the receptacle.
My timing couldn’t have been worse. I looked up to see a familiar face far too close to mine. An aging man who didn’t care for aging, man. His thin, long hair closely matted to scalp with sweat. His crow’s feet narrowed, “I know you.”
He did. I did not want to continue this exchange.
“No. No you don’t.” I turned to make a quick escape. An overreaction caused by drugs.
But he managed to get in front of me again.
“Where do I know you?”
He knew me from SXSW. I had gotten pretty day drunk which bled into ugly night drunk. I was at one of many internet marketing parties with free alcohol. He had first seen me at the pizza parlor next door about an hour before. Soon I was outside without the aid of my friends when he approached me. I was too drunk to recall the exact exchange but I was being far too enthusiastic about his bicycle accident story. I was in the dangerous realm of a state I call “mobile drunk” where I appear to be coherent, but in reality, I am at high-functioning blackout. I was paying way too much attention to this man for way too long. He must have been impressed and thought I was aggressively flirting back with him. Which I very well could’ve been. My ride caught me right as he went in for a kiss, “Cheryl, let’s go.” As my mobile drunk self has done to countless of other innocent bystanders, I left him in the dust of European compact car blowing kisses through the window. Perhaps he hoped we’d meet again?
I didn’t. Now I was staring at him. His eyes searched mine. Looking for my soul to connect to his. But there wasn’t one in there. Inside of me, at that moment, was an angst-ridden feral cat. I couldn’t articulate the same flashback to him in my condition. I could barley get the word say “no” without it sounding unnatural.