TheStrip felt like dropping 5 sheets of Timmy's best blotter, passing out, and waking up peaking in the middle of a Vatican Mass screaming about the Protestants invading. IhateitIloveitIhateitIloveit, like an abusive parent, like an endless cycle of self-inflicted abuse.
Discovering too much about yourself and the house you are in, wondering why you moved there. Loving the abuse like a fine septum piercing. Working to exhaustion, then realizing you had nothing, nothing left for anything else except the long-strange-you-know-what. Realizing that you didn't care anyway, because the (s)trip was better than reality. All of a sudden, getting a job because of the your intoxication and realizing the reality IS the (s)trip, and those poor saps inside the house are just cowering with the Windows drawn and the lights out.
Waking up the next day, strung out, neck aching, horrible breath, and cottonmouth. Looking at the (s)trippers around you. Thanking god it's over, knowing they thank god its over. All of you digging in the couch cushions for that last tab, hiding somewhere in the yellow shag of the carpet, the orange velour of the couch. Wanting more, needing more, going to find more just by getting the hell out of the house, knowing that you can use real words now like shit and fuck and terrorist and fanatic and just plain moron.
Sober up. Go forth and kick much funk.
