Chapter 11
I wake up on the floor of Everhet’s kitchen and instantly bring my phone over my face.
I dreamt that I text Morgen a Homeric epic about how my parents were dead. How they exploded.
I look at my texts. Wasn’t a dream. Initiate shame blocking sequence.
Chapter 10
With my hands unrestrained I trace the names scratched in the black leather upholstery by former passenger’s fingernails.
The cop opens the door for me to get out.
He rolls down his window, I can’t see it, but I can hear it. My back to him, I hear him say, “Hey, kid—ub-uh— Mr. Defoe. You, uh. You sure you’re okay?”
Chapter 9
Under the surface of the dark water I feel milk cartons and leaves and trash bumping into my face. I slosh around in the sewage, an acidic green and black cocktail. The air, urine-heavy with the scent of cholesterol-soaked piss.
I float on the surface of the garbage-infused water, looking up at the spotlight spewing from out the manhole I just fell through, with a Virgo full moon giving high energy vibes, as I float farther away.
Chapter 8
As if I’m being controlled remotely, I step out of the bar and into the street. Cool wind blows in my ear. Its frigid bite resets me, slightly.
I’m going to assume the worst is over and that whatever malfunction my intestinal tract was experiencing was due to ingesting whatever it was in that cocktail. But it seems to have passed now, and I feel good-n-pissed. Downfall is, my whiskyed dick don’t work but I still got energy.
Chapter 7
It wasn’t that weird that this Morgen A. needed a ride.
Although, our interactions in private messages did make me wonder if I was talking to a computer programmed with auto responses. A bot.
The driver double-checked to make sure the address I put in was really where I wanted to go.
Why does it always feel set-up whenever someone agrees to hang out with me?
Chapter 6
Spending so much personal time with Evy-B has dulled some of his shine. I’m starting to realize the billionaire barista does not exist, at least not full time. And I can’t lie, my reverence may be dwindling.
What’s impressive is he doesn’t start making excuses of why he has a day job. It’s purely strategic, he needs it to fund his art career. Any stupid shame about jobs considered “beneath” is self-generated—as is all shame.
Chapter 5
The DMV is a Visual Cult Object to me.
When stepping from outside into the glass antechamber, one feels they are in a limbo space.
The second set of doors swing open to the waiting area, the catechumen.
Chapter 4
On my first day at Van Gogh’s Vase he appears.
Either there’s some funky stuff in my gum or this is a dream come true.
I keep looking at the shaved hair around his left ear, his perfectly groomed short beard (likely a Size 1 clipper guard), and try to truly believe, the creator of DPZ, Everhet Byzantine, is my boss now.