Searching for meaning in empty words

I have nowhere to go.

#6

After playing soccer at a gas station (One fella asked, "You guys a soccer team?" We told him we were. We were dressed in jeans and jackets, shoes falling apart and playing with a deflated ball most likely stolen from a kindergartner. To my knowledge, all traveling soccer players ride in a banged up grey van with no leg room.), we made our way to heaven, AKA Greensboro, North Carolina. We were fed like kings, pampered with friendly conversation, and accompanied by majestic and adorable animals.

The Southern hospitality did not end there. We stayed at another house full of curiously attractive animals. We played fooseball and Nintendo until retiring, only to wake up to another feast.

And here I sit. Clean. Full. Happy. A basset hound named after my favorite fictitious author (Kilgore Trout) sitting by my side, slobbering on the computer.

Thank you.

Robotic Suck-pire

Last nights show was the most violent on this tour. I'm pointing most of the blame on the fact the show got started later than we're used to. With the time between us arriving in Richmond and actually playing, we drank. Seven of us sat in the van, each with our respective 40s. Jason and Yeti made a new friend while going to 7-11 who gave them a mysterious white substance wrapped in a small piece of cellophane. The stranger handed them the make-shift bag after they purchased him two hot dogs in exchange for guiding them to the market.

Before playing, Jason puked in the sink of the women's bathroom. Sven drank some coffee. Allen and Karl X'ed up their hands. Jake socialized. Cory and Yeti ate sushi. I ordered another drink.

After Playing, we were making sure everyone who was bleeding or bruised (myself included) got a drink or a T-shirt and enjoyed their time.

ACAB

Today is the warmest I've been in weeks. The windshield is despicably dirty and the streaks intensify the sunlight. I wish I had prescription sunglasses. Instead, I pop out the lenses of stolen drug store sunglasses and loosely fix them to the insides of my regular glasses.

Last night, we did many terrible things. Somehow word got out that I tattoo, which lead to such idiotic statements like, "You need to give me a dagger, because I've been stabbed in the back." Trying to be somewhat responsible at the moment, I refrained from doing tattoos. Jake, however, took it upon himself to some stick and poke tattoos with a sewing needle, broken pen, and india ink. They were his first attempts at life ruining. Of course, tattooing is a long process and by the time Jake was working on his second masterpiece (An X and an O on some little gal's wrist.), my sense of responsibility had been thwarted by Jim Bean. I leaned over the gal, saw the blood and ink soaked atrocity, then dangled a strand of spit over it. Jake seeing this, pushed me away and my saliva landed on the table. I aimed again, conjured up what liquid I had in my mouth, yet was pushed away again. Third time's a charm, though, I finally successfully spat upon the open wound. The gal, being quite inebriated, took a moment to inspect the spit. When she realized what had happened, she looked to her left, leaped over a table and punched some guy in the face, thinking it was him that had soiled her new, awful tattoo. I let the guy take the blame, and walked back downstairs.

Phill-me-in

Jake's driving. He just changed my song. What an asshole.
I chipped some more teeth last night. I can't help but tongue their new, coarse divots as we drive from Philly to Baltimore.

Dog years

I took a shower, yet still feel terrible. Staring in the mirror, I want to smash my face into the reflective glass. There's this heavy feeling of inferiority and general disgust plaguing my mind for the evening.

We're staying in a house that has an interesting history with me: The last time I slept here, I had familiar relations with one of the tenants. When I saw the mix tape I made her in the bathroom, I shook my head. I thought about how disappointed she must have been when I turned out to not be what she wanted. If she were here tonight, I wonder what we would say to one another. I wonder if I were to sit down and have a heartfelt talk with her, maybe I could sleep with her again.

The door to her room is open. Part of me wants to go in there. Maybe see if she has anything else I gave her out in the open, maybe jerk off in her bed to mark my territory. I do neither. Instead, I pick at the cut on the bottom of my black eye, scrape the scab on my bottom teeth, and savor the metallic taste of dried blood.

Tour-ist

On the L train, a class of 8 year-old kids to my left, a bald albino to my right, I notice a small oval of urine on my pants. I'm trying to not look at the map on the opposite wall... god forbid someone know I'm an outsider. So I keep my head down, even if I'm going in the wrong direction.
The albino has yellow and maroon shoes with skulls and pistons painted on them.
The sway of the train slithering it's way through the city's colon only makes my headache worsen. My train of though is derailed. The whiskey and cocaine are sitting in my belly, causing me to fidget in search of a sitting position that will keep me from shitting my pants.

Thai this on

I sit by myself in a Thai restaurant, waiting for my vegetarian yellow curry. I can't wait for the coconut milk and potatoes to grace my taste buds. I am completely alone in the restaurant. "It for here?" The lady at the counter asks me. I think they might be trying to close. I look around and respond, "Oh, I can leave."
The bathroom here is real nice. After I order, I set my water down at a table and took a piss. Not at the table, or in my water, but in the nice bathroom.
I wonder where the other fellas are. Last I saw them, they were gearing up to eat sandwiches, as I walked passed in my pursuit of my own eatery.
Now that I have my meal, I'm like a virgin at the first sight of pussy. Practically afraid to even taste, in fear of the pleasure that I might feel. For a moment I contemplate fucking my curry in the nice bathroom, but I come to my senses. Finish my sentence. And try my food.

Baw-stun

We've spend the past 10 days in Boston (Pronounced: Baw-stun). Yesterday we picked up our brothers from the airport and made our way to Haverhill (Pronounced: Hay-vreal), which is about 45 minutes from Boston. It took us about 2 hours to get there with traffic and Taco Bell stops. Upon arrival, I walked the bitterly cold streets in search of a little bar called The Peddler's Daughter, which I went to the last time we played Haverhill. I drank a small bottle of Cisco on the walk, to keep me warm. Not worried about any law enforcement folks, seeing as Cisco bottles look more like salad dressing that booze. Upon my arrival, my glasses fogged up and I asked the barkeep for a shot of Jameson. The whiskey battled the bum wine for my taste buds. Neither won, they just sat together disgustingly in the cuts and bumps on my tongue. I ordered an IPA to get the taste of everything out of my mouth. I ordered another shot to get the taste of everything out of my head.
No one in the entire place made eye contact with me until I locked eyes with a curiously dressed fella. He had on some sort of a visor and a yellow polo shirt. Behind him was a great big sea of green, well kept grass. He had a great big following of equally ill dressed worshipers. They kept their distance, however, standing feet and sometimes yards away from him. Making sure to keep very quite any time he was in concentration. When I realized that the most interesting thing in the bar was the giant flat-screen television tuned to a golf tournament, I had one last shot, payed my bill, and had a smoke on the way back to the show.