Here we are. You and me. Maybe we’re in a bar. Maybe we have some beers. Maybe I suggest we get a shot with the beers. Maybe you say, “Hell yeah! Muthafuckingshot! Hell yeah!” Maybe we walk to the bar. And maybe, while the bartender relinquishes some of that agave nectar, I, purely for your entertainment, decide to say something weird.
To which you will reply, “Dude, are you on crack?”
My friends, nary a day goes by without the things that come out of my mouth being indicted as products of the various habits of hippies and homeless people. In fact, at one time, your dear blogging buddy, Ms. Libre was known to her closest friends as “Crackhead”- this nickname being official as several people had stored my phone number under this name in their cell. But was it because I was a whiter walking audition for Dave Chappells’s crack-feign character Tyrone? No. I simply liked to watch, read and thus say weird shit. So they’d call me “Crackhead,” and I’d say, “Hey.”
Fun fact #37: I’ve actually never done crack. And if you add up the number of times I’ve done acid, you’ll ultimately reach a grand total of one. (It was slipped in my mouth without my consent at nine am after I’d taken my fourth ecstasy pill while in the middle of a whipit. But that’s beside the point.) So why then, should hallucinogens or the poor man’s coke get all the glory? Why can’t my freakish thoughts be the product of my own weirdness? You know, Crack didn’t spend its childhood years with an unhealthy addiction to reading insane books and trying to emulate the writing styles with its own stories when normal children went out and played softball. Crack didn’t suffer through years of peer rejection whilst trying to woo those same normal children away from their softball game with said written stories. Crack didn’t cry about its friendless existence on its mom’s shoulder, while she tried to comfort it saying, “There, there, Pipe. You just march to the beat of a different drum.” Crack didn’t even grow up later to realize how gay that saying is. So why’s Crack getting the credit?
Fun Fact #41: Aside from popping a few Focus Factors, I’m actually mind numbingly sober when I write these posts. Soberer than your mom. Soberer than Billy Grahm on Bible detox. Soberer than you when you woke up next to her:
and swore off burbon for the rest of your life!
Sure, Kerouac wrote On the Road while careening through the mind trip of Benzedrine, but I just can’t do that. Don’t got the right wires, man. Can’t blog while simultaneously watching purple heads ooze out of the walls and come together as one beautiful pulsating being that sings William Blake poems to the tune of Ooops, I Did it Again while soothing my anxieties with their fuscia tongues that duuuuude, makes me figure it all out. It’d be too hard to see the Zs and Xs on the keyboard.
Relatively Fun Fact Depending on What Your Mom Says #82: I’m actually more inclined to write posts about, for example, Why the Chickens are Speaking to Me Through the Spatulas. But what’s the fun in writing something if everyone assumes it was ghost written by hallucinogens? This story was kinda weird. Yet I felt the need to put the disclaimer on the bottom to illustrate that no, I was not stealing the Rican’s weed. (I did that later.) But since the whole fucking world has decided to crown Crack as the Poet Laureate of Lunacy, I felt compelled to defend my inspiration.
So peeps, just so we’re clear, Godamnit! It’s not crack’s idea!!! It’s mine! I’m the weirdo! I’m the freak! Listen to the Spatulas, man. The chickens are trying to speak!
Now, about that shot. Need some alcohol to bring me down quick. I took waaaaay too big a bump in the bathroom.