No Breakfast For The Drunk At Heart

There’s free breakfast here.  that was the selling point “Free Breakfast”.  Outside is scary, so you’ll need plenty of food to expel when an emergency arrives.  I button a wrinkled shirt and dress to disguise my maddening hangover.  I fold sunglasses on the “v” in my shirt.  “I’ll eat a huge breakfast and save my money!”, I told myself with teetering enthusiasm.  Soon the only things that will be free is loneliness and plans for suicide.  In the elevator, a woman goes on-and-on about how well she slept.  I had dreams of impending doom at the  hand of black gentlemen, not wanting to join the Navy and long lost friends approving of my decision to slit my wrist. DING!  We reach the lobby and I reach down to make sure my fly is zipped.  I would hate for my fellow travelers to see my bushy, long-forgotten pubic hair whilst choking down varied and questionable meats.  I avoid coffee and cigarettes at this point to not engage my morning bowel movement.  This is why I must live alone.  My bathroom habits are long and storied.  When the nukes go off and we are etching pictures on fallout shelter walls, there will be a depiction of what seems to be a deity standing next to a toilet. Living with me is like having a meth-lab in the house.  The eggs are in patty form as are the sausages.  Will there be biscuits? Sure, there are.. now lets make some egg, sausage and biscuit sandwiches.  People are gently fighting over tongs and plates.  A Mexican girl thinks the drink dispenser is  hilarious for some reason.  I sit and pretend to be distracted by place-mats, tv, my shoes or just looking off into the distance nodding my head at an imaginary problem I just solved.  What’s key here is not to look to my right.  There, sits a table of female soccer players all in their uniforms.  I feel as though a passing glance would bring about a blow to my character. “Creep” is what I believe they call it. But, that charge seems to only be leveled at those of my girth and untidiness.  The handsome bastards can wink and blow kisses while the girls mothers redo their make-up and decide not to eat that third muffin with butter.  I dump my plate, grab a coffee and put artificial sweetener in it.  “Faggy” is what I believe they call it.  Real men drink coffee…black…maybe a little motor oil and they sport massive erections whilst fighting off wolves.  Even the poor bastards with the small cocks mix it up.  Flaccidly, I go have a smoke in a designated area.  They don’t kick up much dust about smoking around here. Hell, I actually smoked at a bar in Hollywood a few days ago. Maybe that wasn’t real.  I finish two butts and sip at the coffee.  the timer has been primed. I haste hastily search for my room key.  The elevator doors open and a group of fine women pour out.  I avoid eye contact as if a gun was being waved around.  The doors close.  The smell of freshness and false fragrances fill the lift.  I inhale deeply. COUGH!  I must vomit and shit.  My room is near, so I retain a gentleman’s stride to my door.  Once inside I am a surgeon and this is my operating table.  As I puke,  I think about all the horrible things in my life.


Beware The Man That Goes By “Uncle”, But Is Not One…

The worlds finest couldn’t figure this shit out.  The lamps are left on all the time.  When exiting rooms or alleyway they’re always up your ass.  Needing to check in.  Needing to check your wallet.  Big fat waves and soft beds do not aid the writer. Small places and unaccommodating surroundings embrace big fat victories.  Old sadness is always there to keep the face moist and the fire stoked.  The blue birds have been caged and rattled.  They have nearly pecked themselves to death.  It’s laughable how I once perceived them to be free.  That baby couldn’t take it or understand it.  Now, the breeze no longer has the effervescent tinge to it.  It’s all smog and killers now.  Women look elsewhere. Maybe, it’s all for the best.  False grins are further away.  The rain season never comes.  I become dizzy.  I need to shit in case of unconsciousness.  With every social interaction, there is nothing but the SLAMMING of the clever and tingling in the legs.  The dreams have become a playground for humiliation.  Wild theories of playing out some purgatory pervade my thoughts.  There is a whole lot of loss with every little bit of lover.  The weird and terrible clang together so rapidly, leaving nothing but the self. And the self ain’t good.