Tramadol Nights – Like an Escort …

I wrote a series of stream of consciousness posts few weeks ago after being sick and taking a lot of painkillers. These posts are supposed to be as accurate a depiction for the thoughts in my mind during that episode. I have decided to share them with you, in part because crazy thoughts by themselves are about as enjoyable as performing cunnilingus after an intense workout. Unless of course you suffer from hyponatremia and need the salt. So with that in mind let me open the gate and ensure you safe passage into the mind a young man under the toxic spell of intense pain and pharmaceuticals. Oh btw, if you are easily offended don’t read


download (10)man..
This sucks !

I have been on my back for so long now I feel like an escort. Luckily I have neither stretch marks around the corners of my mouth nor the need to gargle profusely every time I am in front of the mirror. Life could be worse.

The pain killers are starting to kick in. I don’t feel anything other than the quickness at which new thoughts are out-pacing older thoughts , no longer following the dictate of the normal  linear progression I enforce in my head. I don’t feel my body.  I wonder if this is what deep penitence was suppose to feel like? You would genuflect for so long that if you were sincere about changing there would be a brief moment where you would feel only the lack of feeling. That sounds like fanciful conjecture and overly religious thinking.

I don’t understand. If pain is beauty and beauty is the only redemptive thing there is why can’t penitence- the moment before the redemption comes, be a lack of sensation of pain. That version of penitence makes sense. It cleanses the palate like sips of unsweetened black tea before eating a dessert rrepares  you  to be overwhelmed with the new sensations.

You know what I should do, I should be sick and in pain for a whole fucking year. Then I could write an article on or the Huffington post like these fucking jack-ass do. It’s always something to the extent of I ate food only for Starbucks all year and I learned that lack of fibre and bloody stools don’t make me much fun to be around. But I love myself, especially since I am so alone the fucking time inundating my innards with overly price coffee and existential irrelevance. Or my favorite, I stuck my head in my ass for a year and realize how important an invention the light-bulb was.

That was mean. I don’t know why I get mean like that sometimes. I was hugged enough as a child or at least those parts of my childhood I remember before I discovered lotion and free time. That ‘s a funny joke. I needed that laugh. I had no idea how to explain that. I think I butchered it. Everyone is looking at me weird again.


I don’t know if I am awake or asleep. What’s that line in Shakespeare about a dreamless sleep? It must be from Hamlet I am guessing. I will look it up on my phone.

Fuck it’s hard to focus.

To die, to sleep;
To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there’s the rub;
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause: there’s the respect
That makes calamity of so long life;

Thanks to this cocktail of drugs and not eating I have temporarily shuffled off the mortal coil. There is no sense of calamity or  even what we consider life to be. It seems even ridiculous that whatever life is could be measured or made mean something. 

I can’t wait till I get better. I don’t know what the fuck I want to do when I am better. I want to get a bike and ride with no where to go in specific just ride and ride till my lungs burn and I have out paced the monotony that seems to increase in weight the older I get. Actually never mind that seems really far, like too far to go on a bike unless I am shooting roids into my nuts like Lance Armstrong.

I remember when I was younger I wrote that essay stating that I wanted to live in the wild and fake my own death so that I could be left alone. I wonder what I would have done? I had no idea what nature was. The closest thing to nature was the sounds of the cats fornicating on the garbage can. I wonder if cats during their fornicating knew how their ear piercing moans reach out to us as we are lost in a profound state of torpor.

10258820_642381485816839_5298973350399563499_nThat’s a weird way of thinking about it  … that alley cats have sex to remind us that we are animals with passion. Sitting around in front of the TV does nothing except make us regret more watching The Price is Right when we are on our death bed wishing that we took that Serbian girl on her offer all those years ago. Perhaps in that moment of climax, (which is what pure vulnerability feels like) we could have penetrate deeper into some mystery, by way of a cervix punch.

A mystery that is right under our nose all the times. Especially right after sex but before you have the energy in your knees to open the window to aerate the room. And thus start on the task of hiding all traces of the few moments of passion because it’s not enough that everything fades, the punchlines, the valiant soldiers, and even the taste of food and the ability to stand up and urinate: we have to play a hand in their own evanescence from the field of perception.


Is there any benefit admitting that
I’m confused by life? I am at a loss…

Through the sweating glass on the table, I see air
stuck against the inside. Why should there be
air in water? Should we still be taunted by promises
of levity, long after submerging
below the fluid lines ?

There’s a worm writhing between the blades
of a birds beak, and it was still beated against
a rock, before being swallow. Worms
have no bones and birds no teeth

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