I watch her watching that boobtube with that stupid mouth of hers wide open like a mental patient on gooooooood antipsychotics. I wonder if it’s because she wishes she was in there instead of out here. Because she thinks it’s better there. Or if she’s just tuned out to the whole world of characters not shown to her through a screen. Today it’s the Olympians and this year they are in London. But in four years it’s be the same but a different city. Here or there. If I was her, I’d also be more interested in screens and fantasy and virtual reality. Because her reality is so hard, living in LA, being an aspiring actress on other people’s dimes, now there’s definitely something you don’t see everyday — the London Olympics — and then the bullshit she has to put up with from me tonight anyways…

The Gypsy Cafe does not resemble our mind’s romanticized images of London or Madrid or the Cayman Islands or Majorca or the Abruzzo or anything other than Gypsy Cafe on Venice and Motor in Culver. Then again, even if we were in London, who’s to say we wouldn’t want to get away from the Helter Skelter of the Olympics and go to some abandoned Gypsy hookah cafe place on the outskirts of London where it would all look just the same as here at this Gypsy Cafe. But I know this old ass backwards trucker hat with a picture of a dirty rooster isn’t exactly proper gentleman’s attire either way, London or Culver. And neither is this heinous fart. Butt fuck it.

I was just thinking of killing time and self by smoking yet another cigarette, but here comes Ben and Nadia from the Liquor Store with the happy juices. We forget the truth and feign carefree as we pass the fifth along and carefully fill our cups under the table in silence so the nonexistent staff definitely doesn’t see. The beers are legal in this place so we crack those out in the open.

We finally order and finish everything fairly quickly, starting with the beers and the liquor. Not much to say during mealtime when you’re high and hungry trying to get drunk while the Olympics celebrates the year 2012 on NBC.

We leave the café and no one says much of anything except some bullshit about the weather being nice. “Yeah… I wonder what the weather’s like in Hell” I say out loud, all serious and grave like with my deep deep voice. No one laughs. “Probably like Seattle.” It sounds too ominous. I laugh out loud at how creepy I sound to myself.

I thought we’d all be drunk by now coming out of the place all rowdy ready to be maniacs and all Hari Kari scary style.  But I guess when you’ve been high since the morning, there’s nowhere further up to go. So you can’t really feel the drink. And even if you keep on smoking, it’s all just more numb after more numb because it’s only the first hour that gives you energy anyway, no matter when you start… Yes. The best you can do after the first joint of the day is to maintain.

As we come to the intersection in complete fucking sober silence except for the chronic tachycardic thoughts and paranoias in my head, Nadia’s sister calls and says she’s driving over here to meet us all at my place. We pick up the pace to intercept. I check my cell phone: 10:30. Suddenly the gravity cumulative exhaustions, so many days in a row, hits me all at once. If only I was lying naked, I thought, completely still, on my giant queen bed with the windows open and hints of the Venice breeze passing into my brain through the nostrils. Just me and the crickets with their rhythm. No one else. Not her. Not them. Not even the other(s) me(s).

As we walk towards my house, Ashley keeps trying to light the joint. I guess it keeps going out after each puff. Just a week ago she made a disgusted face when I lit a joint at 1PM on a Saturday and said “Ew! I! Don’t smoke weed! That shit is bad!” Now this 5 foot nothing Chiquita banana is ripping reefer from sun up till pass out. At least these last two weekends she’s been at my place so I haven’t had to drive too much. She lives in North Hollywood. No way am I going out there again. Not with the treachery of the 101 or the 405 and all those damn exit closures without disclosure. So she’s been sleeping over here at my place. Sometimes she passes out butt naked on the couch with her ass up and the AC on. At first, I didn’t mind it. And the sex was good. She was a crazy fine looking latina with phenomenal assets. But I’m a loner and this shit’s getting heavy and the shits of the past are still on my back and I’m running out of words and patience for the whole damn thing. Even the pussy’s starting to smell different. Just because you’ve had it a bunch now… in a row…

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