Me: woke up handcuffed in Queens after a three-day drunk of biblical proportions, mouth like sandpaper meets restaurant dumpster, teeth loose, cut over my eye, head pounding like taiko drummers on meth- none of which kept me from appreciating your unique natural beauty from my vantage point on the floor.
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You: walking circles around your cot, super cute despite the twitch and facial tick, even in hospital greens glamorously sporting an all time blue ribbon trophy rack. You refused to take your meds and they had to get help to hold you down- when you bit the orderly they had to sedate you. Tenacious- I dig that.
On your way down you looked over at me and smiled, I threw up on the floor and laid in it. You looked concerned, I grinned and shrugged. You win some, you lose some. As they took you away on the stretcher I just laid there reeking of stale alcohol and cigarettes, wishing I'd gotten a chance to tell you my name.
I was hoping I’d run into you at rehab but apparently you were the rare bird in Queens psyche ward for something other than substance abuse (serious- I’ve heard it happens once in a while.) Keep an eye out for me down in Chinatown. I’ll be the guy with the Mohawk in cut-off shorts and combat boots, getting kicked out of the shittiest bars and vomiting next to yuppies in expensive shoes waiting for their car to be valeted outside Indigos.
Stay gold ponyboy.
- Location: Queens psyche ward five weeks ago Thursday Morning 6 a.m.
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