Ambien and Ice 101. Nostalgic pangs in my loins.

Incomplete sentence free association bullshit.
The first good day in a long series of days toxic with monotony. Meant to post this yesterday. Shit. Whatev.
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Smoking with an old friend. Nostalgia creeps through the blinds at daybreak. "Are you really dating someone else now?" No. "He still talks about you." I don't know. "You should call him." I don't know. "He'd appreciate it." I know. Pushed him from my mind as he pushed his hips into mine. Staring into the warm glow of my laptop trying to drown out snoring. A stay-up later silently eating vegan pancakes. Nice to see you toooooo.
The corridors of the mall are echoing with activity and community vigor. Old school entertainment. Slight nostalgia nipping at my heels again. I enter the Vans store and my gay-dar overheats. Can I help you? No, can I help YOU? Giving the "hey baby" with my eyes as she kneels beside me and laces up my two-tone Era's for me. Yes, I'll take these. They suit me? Oh, thanks. What's your name? Oh, right. Blush. Thank you for your help today. Sigh.
Yanking on the massive holes in my ears, shoving in acrylic star-print plugs with relentless force. Squeeze. Sting. Brief flashback of a dirty deviation. I don't care. Shitting cum. No regrets, not quite. Clean the Astroglide from my lobes and put the plugs back in their tiny ziploc. Give up.
Brief slumber to catch up on the missing hours from the night before. Dreamless, peaceful. Wake to my iPod speakers softly sending pieces of Chaz's soul to me. Soul transmissions. Bend Your Body.
Reconnect with two old friends who coincidentally found me on the same day. (On myspace, no less). One whom I met in rehab and was certain had overdosed and died in September after she dropped off the grid after my birthday. Nope. Near tears of joy. Can't wait to see you both.
Trying to make a cohesive song. Over analysis, like a huge speed bump that rapes your undercarriage. Random youtube tag searches:

Surges of inspiration.
Cross-legged, tracing the print of my flannel sheets in between swigs of Ice 101. One hundred and twenty-two minute intox'd phone conversation. Vivid story sequences, striking commonalities. HRO is irrelevant. Elliott Smith, the perfect soundtrack to a death in Denny's (but it's okay to laugh). Detached, but not sociopaths. Mentally ill via our own Wikipedia diagnoses, but in reality not really. Cheeks sore from laughing, throat burning from the Schnapps. Mindless banter, but suddenly I get it.
Content with my findings, I go back to click-clacking away at some erotic review. (Why?) Remind myself to have fun, and not concern myself with whether or not it will be published or if it's considered productive. Less thinking, more doing. Write, write, write. If you enjoy it, do it.
4am interruption. Can I come over? Yes. I miss you. Really? I'm on my way. Okay. I need to get out of here. Okay. Help. What? I don't know where I am. What? He made me get out of the car. What? I have to walk to your place now. No, I'm coming for you. Immerse you in the Basement healing powers. Smoke this; and drink this pomegranate cranberry juice. Love you always. Ambien slurring, unneeded apologies. Nice to see you smile again. Tuck you in.
Wake up, do it again.

Next night, Dad: "I poured you a Fosters."
What?
"Cheers."
Clink. Sipping lager out of a Stella Artois glass with a gold rim. Sometimes it's hard to get along with you, but I love you.