Daily Occurances On Drugs

so im starting my own thread about my daily intoxicated occurances in chattanooga,Tn

Girl#1 at the Bookstore​

\tI imagined myself in bohemian garb wandering the north-shore attracting confidants or maybe a simple hello. I walked aimlessly but with a confidence that i knew where i was going. I was four bowls into my morning and the sidewalk was especially wavy. I had the names in my head, classic names, names that any beatnik would know. supernovas that wrote with an unrelenting visceral truth. expelling a sense that they had lived in the nucleus of a nostalgic time. a funky folk joint with a glass door and cattle bells, lassoing my attention. the bells were laced with wire rope and the rusting sign should have belonged to a colonial shoe store or some shit.it seemed void of people as if I had just walked into a strangers home. a calming silence that only a musky bookstore can provide. i smelled animals but i couldnt make out what, cats i presume. the scraping of overgrown dog nails on a wooden floor alerted me otherwise. two obese black Shepard mutts that resembled chickens waddled toward me. The room was halved with folk art, metal scrapings and weathered book shelves. The odd shapes and twisting colors spun my head but in a perfect way. symbolism of our home and relicts of a previous generation. it was a museum of sorts but without the glass and the hovering security. I had taken some acid at 8am to make this sunday perfect and now it was close to 9 and my high was creeping. soon after the animals noticed my presence i heard the shuffling of woman's shoes; not high heels but the flat bottom sandal things that flopped. her footsteps were short and quick. a surprised hello spilled out of her lips as if i wasnt what she was expecting, i cant imagine this place getting many randos so i wasnt offended, she was beautiful. i rebounded with a mimicking “hello”. i was baffled that she had said hello because the majority of the bratty teenage workforce would have been less cordial, but this was a bookstore and “hello” was the word. the acid was made me feel a bit weary so i grabbed a book, any book will do. I sat in a wooden rocking chair and pretended to read as the words scattered on the page. the weed had really launched my trip. i had a sudden urge to stand so i did but then i sat down. i did this action a few times until i felt comfortable moving across the book museum folk art circus. i went straight for the classic literature where she had been filing novels. i searched for the names on my list of beatniks but to no prevail. I thumbed through the emerson hacks and Bukowski insomniac tribulations and huckleberry finn cover art mixed with a Dylan Thomas screenplay.

a simple scene of Dyaln smoking. one dollar and i put the paperback under my arm. i walked the squealing wooden planks that made up the floor back towards the classic literature where the girl with the glasses was hardly working.the squils were defening. i finally had a better view. my peripherals made her out to be short but when i turned my head, she did the same and we met eyes but we both turned away back to the bindings. i was much to observant and probably seemed threatening with my wide gazing pupils. she seemed diligently working now as if to make sure i knew she was working and not smoking in the back. it was much too musky to smell any drugs. i stopped her midstep and asked her for “Faulkner” she came to a halt and ran the name in her head and strained her squinty eyes to push out an answer and directed me toward the computer database, i was disappointed. I imagined her with a keen mind and an eye for placement but they cant all be perfect. i followed her tracer and glided to the computer and stared at my hands. her tongue led me to believe she was southern and definitely from the mountains.

A southern girl with liberal sensibilities and jean shorts. A Tennessee girl is something to see but you cant trust the ones from Memphis, they are too far away from Nashville to understand the melody of a mans broken heart. a conservative base with liberal showers. the higher the elevation the less you care about the land below i suppose. i wanted her to ask me something, anything to show that i was fitting enough for her. i was still feeling paranoid and a little Manson nuts at this point, comtemplating jazz and what not. my hair was growing, the dogs followed me everywhere, even when i gave them mean faces. i stood there growling at these damn dogs. they look like chickens, they probably taste good. she searched the datatbase and i came to find they only had some runoff Faulkner collaborations and that wasnt my style, at least for now. i threw a few more names at her; Ginsburg, Kerauach, Mailer, Juan Williams, Capote, Tom Wolfe. Nothing. I sighed in disappointment again and assured her i was going to survey the rest of the shelves. I began to feel that this place was a waste of my time but my head wouldnt let me leave i was to stay here until something profound happened.....in a bookstore...on acid. after a short time of thinking about her blue jean shorts I went straight for the locked glass bookcase that contained the overpriced world of rare books. I saw a collection of Jack kerhuac and just wanted to hold it.

I told her to fetch the keys and i pulled the book from the shelf and opened the first page and saw the price tag before i could read the first word. after that i felt unworthy and admitted that i had wasted her time. She was uninteresting and i couldn't place my finger on it, she was hiding something. everything in the store was an unfamiliar shape, everyting was wonka'd out except for this blonde girls face which was glowing like an angel. it scared the fucking shit out of me and i blurted a series of words that ill never know. she was confused and i was confused...i pretended it didnt happen. But i knew it was something of importance...she was blushing; i probably said something flattering or something deranged.Woman do this, they give me the greatest gift in intelligent life, epiphanies, i appreciate it. its odd, even the plainness women can spark my creative ingenuity and my journalistic passion for understanding. she was blonde, wore high waisted shorts, a tucked in shirt that made her breasts perch so elegantly on her chest, a body that wasnt fragile, something to grab ahold of when the bucking is breaking your saddle. a type of beauty that can only be described as fine wine and i had an acquired taste for her kind. There is no use in describing this girl in physical attributes, she was emanating intelligence and i gravitated towards her intelligent ass. cute enough to love. the lip piercing. i wanted to fuck her brain. i went to the register and handed her the dylan screen play that was still under my arm but a little damp from my armpit sweat. it was only a dollar so i paid in change like a true gentleman and said “ thank you very much” The Shepard mutts followed me out the door and I left the immaculate daydream.

 

my plan for chattanooga domination:folk scene proclamation #1

its long get over it

God damnit i woke up at 730am this morning.. its not completely black outside due to the horrifying florescent bulbs that are dubbed environmentally friendly but give off the vibe of a 50's X-ray machine. they flicker and I catch myself checking my eyesight and falsely reading every flash in light as an assassin with his hands flying for my neck. they hiss and its annoying. you never really wake up when you wake and bake, ill smoke one time at 8:35 am and feel like a stoned zombie all day, drive down 24 towards downtown like a mad man. stay in your dreams as long as you can i always say. the glow of past sewage is present at dawn when the sky does its swirl of nuclear colors. i can see the outline of signal mountain with its head removed like a french king, its beautiful but kind of bland and filled with dippy heads. our water tastes funny and i feel sick when i come here. its either some shitty memories or theres something in the air. it smells like corn-dogs everywhere, not the Nathan's cony island kind but some microwaved horse-shit. The city is filled with strung out mountain bike hippies and strung out homeless black folk. this one particular man stands at the same corner of Palmetto and Mccallie with his tremendous white beard that looks to be home to a family of birds. the grayish white color of his beard is either from the bird excrement or his old age. This stoic boundless man was openly smoking crack on the sidewalk like it was the 1980's in Harlem. I want to take a picture of him to show the rotting man what a sad portrait he was displaying.

Every sunday all the strung out sidewalk paper sellers come to eat soup and its sad. these streets were not made for living. these streets are dark downtown because no one enjoys our main streets, no lights. the bars are filled with frat stars and there loose pussied lap dogs. they beat up the homeless people for fun. one time i heard about this kappa sig kid dressed in frat gear take a monkey wrench to some poor drunk basterds head. knocked his teeth out and stole his shoes. stole the damn hobos shoes for no apparent reason. the motherfucker was on crack and had no shoes with a new gushing hole in his sad sarcastic smile. crack will fix your pain bro, take a drag from your glass pipe you deserve it this time...fuck that daddies boy. the strung out hippy dippy type is particular. they are phonies, drug rattled, river bums who use there proclamation of peace as an excuse to do nothing. some would say im the hippie dippy type but i stay away from the tie dye. its a uniform for disaster. all you kids need to learn this. the first question on the P.I.G ACT is how to identify a beatnik....Tie dye.... you are correct sir. The cops dont care about us “white folk” who wouldnt hurt a fly....... they got drug dealers and car thieves to worry about. thats why i stay in the mountains, those cops love drugs almost as much as i do. Chattanooga is the shit that comes out of a horses ass. downtown at least. im sure there are some gems in this rock city but i have yet to see the glimmering shine of an interesting person. dont get me wrong the people here are interesting but there is no scene, nothing holding together a cool epicenter of activity. its a mountain town with po dunk mist-eke. they say there is old chattanooga under our new glorious revamped version and i cant remember who or what said it but it must have been convincing because i think about it everyday. apparently the old chatt is a nuclear waste land, but what can i say, the 50‘s were pretty good as my highschool history book pointed out. on election day i hope some mad faggot drives a plane into chatt just to see how nuclear we are.

idk where this hip place i heard about is, i see some faux hipsters and some jazz musicians but were is the scene. there is none. i should create one. being cool is almost out of style but only because no one has brought back cool. the velvet underground kind of cool. bob dylan going electric cool, allan Ginsburg cool, just mysteriously masterfully cool. how would one do such a thing, create a scene. the faux'ness has to stop, pretending you have the answers is stupid, you cant fix that.... a famous poet said that. fuck street art, write your own damn songs, make them about loss death and trains, act like a soldier for the people, pretend to understand everything but proclaim to know nothing, play like no one has played, write like no one has written. notice the times in a nostalgic head to understand the implications of your generation, become a voice of biased opinion and reason at the same time, write about your dreams in factual ways, be a hypocrite if it means the truth, i dont know how to do this yet but i have the map. work clothes with front pockets for my cigarettes, tighter jeans mine are much to baggy, maybe some leather shoes with strings high on the tongue like something oliver twist would don. leave my hair, its perfect, i need to keep my face vulnerable and stale, my jaw clinched until i sing like a bird, my hands tied until i pick the strings with my callus hands, forget your lyrics and recite knew ones. beg the crowd to love you, become one of them instead of an act, give them a story, give them an instance to ponder while filling there heads with words,. laugh as they would laugh which is just how you laugh, i am you. have no enemies on stage but reject the criminals of greed and embrace the ramblers of deed. do it for the person you could have become without your daddy. a bit of white guilt for the southerner. ....smoke weed everyday

 

dead would be an understatement my friend

 

i say the same thing to myself after i write. its a welcomed response

 

Girl at the Nashville show who hurt my face



\tmisread signals of sexual apathy, a false motive that prohibited me from grabbing ass. she had red hair and she seemed to type slow as i would but in this case she was dancing, and right next to me it seems. i pretend to enjoy this scene of people but really they are clowns for me to mock as i join in on there fun. i feel as though the fun is endless when your not making friends; I only want enemies of envy which are the best kind. Obviously looking at me with her obviously fake reddish shade she rocked. she donned some tasteless tattoos that littered her body perfectly. i wanted to see what was happening in her head as if by some chance she was thinking of me. doubt it Tom!!!your not that attractive.

when im drunk my brain turns into two people. Person#1 is admirable, charming, respectful and the greatest guy youll ever meet. Person #2 is a raging asshole who will call anyone out and hit on any girl and very disrespectfully i might add. im a lightweight. Tonight i was #2 and the jager gave me lazy eyes.i tried to look at her but i never got a clear glance. only a peripheral shot of what direction her batting eyes were gazing. its funny because just when you expect a girl to say nothing she demands the most out of you when your heads literally in your asshole. “come dance, why are you here?” all i could do was some sort of odd Zimbabwean hand signal that was confusing for the both of us. she insisted we move closer to the stage but idk why i assumed she was talking to my crew of strapping fisherman frat brothers that were hovering behind me. there PFG wearing ass's followed me, probably because i smell good, good thinking Person#1. i could smell the Evan Williams, from what ive heard he has bad breath and dock shoes.

i talked, she responded. i see her dancing. i fantasize about her pussy. i have a clear thought. show her how its done. how young is she or old. i dont care. yes or no. yes would be the correct answer. get laid. drink this beer. whos beer is it. Kids Meal is killing it. hes so short. wawawaweeewawubbawubbawub wah wah wah wubbawah wubba wawa weeba wubb the bass was getting me off so i put my face in the 6 ft speaker. i dont have any memories from middle school after that one. probably for the best. wawaweewubba waaahhhh!!!! the red haired sailor girl signals for my possibly homosexual friend to dance with her as if she was a food product. in which she was the inner sandwich meat and the barbarians acted as the bread in this particular circumstance. Hes not gay but he gets about as much pussy as one. In many circles this action of “grinding” is called “stupid” or “in bad taste” or just flat out “tacky” it was humorous but jealousy raged in my penis. i basically had to push my friend into this beautifully tattooed woman, he decline/refused with force from me. she was bored with his ass so i entered as a fitting replacement as #2 would do. . if i learned anything in the past year i concluded that a person is better off trying too hard than too little. because forwardness isn't a game its more like gambling. she put a joint in my mouth and i took a fat drag, blew the milk out my nose and said “fuck it” ....out loud, awkwardly loud.

she squeaked “how about the two of you dance” insinuating that i would want to grind up on a man. I quickly replied with a subtle “i dont swing that way sugar” she rebounded with “well dance with me” this was smooth ass al green to my ears. i grabbed her waist like my cock was raging inside her but only metaphorically.....m e t a p h o r i c a l l y. her waist was well... not as curvy as my ex girlfriends but she definitely had a tight shapely body. she locked on like a military grade stealth fighter and clamped my thigh with whatever wonderful secrets she had between her legs. secrets i would never know. she grinned and placed her hands on my ever shrinking shoulders and i participated in an action despised by onlookers and unconsciously loathed by my peers. they cheered in envy like i had just sunk a 15 foot putt “clap clap clap”. she was my style. she was a gorgeous troublemaker with an interesting chin. i smiled and said “your beautiful” and i slowly released tension from her waist and just let go as she slapped me across my face with circular lips. . i dont know why i let go after she slapped me, but i believe it was the horrible music punishing my ears(they had just switched to D&B).... or maybe because i would never know her name. ive never seen a girl get that offended by the word “beautiful”. the tiny girl hand didnt inflict much pain but it killed my high. my high was bleeding and sucking for air.

i didnt see her the rest of the night. word to the wise. dont find your wife at a dubstep show. i embarked on a thoughtful trek home where i replayed the gems of the night in my seemingly motorized head that was pounding from biblical bass.