It’s some time in early January. In the past three weeks I’ve consumed enough drugs and alcohol to make dawkins believe in god. I convince myself that I need to detox and head to Mother’s Market in search of something good.
I end up with “Revital-X.” My colon and intestinal tract later thank me by beating me into submission.
Turns out that I need a birth certificate in order to secure my position as a drone for the state of California. I don’t even try to look for my birth certificate. I know I lost it while moving 5 times in the last six years, starting various projects, or while taking trips to passport and dmv offices to replace lost identity materials.
I call my pops to ask how I can go about getting a new birth certificate. He tells me to go to the Federal Building in Norwalk and to take ten bucks in cash. I jump on the Metrolink link my Varsity Schwinn in tow. This is my first day of detoxing and all I’ve ingested is that weird Revital-X devil-yellow powder diluted in water. Surrounded by suits, the train takes me from SanTana to Norwalk in a flash. My boots, odd shorts, tattered t-shirt, and hipster mien give me away as an unemployed grad student. I feel the suits stare at me with both pity and envy. Their eyes alternate between saying, “You’re poor,” and “I’m poor too.” My Bose headphones pump sigur ros into my head like molasses into Biff’s unsuspecting gas tank. I get off the train, ride the short distance to the federal building, get shit about where to park my bike, fill in some online form, wait in line with the rest of the drones, approach the window, fork over the money, and before I can whisper, “Phuck the gov’ment,” I’m on my way. Before biking back to SanTana I decide to take a detour to the closest bike shop just to get a feel for the local bike scene. At some point I’m stopped by some cop who doesn’t like my smart mouth rhetoric and asks me if I “would like a ticket.” “Officer,” I say, “if you cite me for what you think was unsafe and illegal then I trust your discretion and judgment and will happily accept any citation you give me today.” Soon thereafter I point to another cyclist doing exactly what I was doing and asked, “Aren’t you going to stop that guy too?” I’m soon on my way, sans citation, and my nipples that much bigger. (Real men have nipples.)
By the time I’m riding back into SanTana I can feel the trek from Norwalk and the Revital-X devil-yellow powder begin to affect my body. My body-phenomenology-ears are pricked and I can sense even the slightest difference in my physical disposition.
DAY 2: Going into 24-plus hours without sugar or caffeine or substances. I’m a pill to be around.
DAY 3: The mucous is kicking in. I had heard about the mucous from the guy at Mother’s who had tried Revital-X. He said that I would feel like I’m coming down with the flu and that I would especially think this because of wealth of mucous my head will begin to produce. It flows out of my mouth and nose and I wonder why the phuck I’m detoxing anyways. “Give me my coke and whores and take your mucous and mochi,” I tell the Revital-X gods. I tempt myself and go to Lola Gaspar. Static before mine eyes is a bottle of Oban while Eddie paces back and forth in front of it, grabbing hold of this, and mixing that. The scene behind the bar beckons me. He asks me what I’ll have. “No booze tonight man,” I mutter disdainfully. He squints his eyes and, for a moment, does not recognize me…I don’t recognize myself. I order the roasted seasonal vegetables and relish in the dank flavors of slightly charred brussel sprouts in evoo and garlic.
DAY 4: There is no way I don’t have the flu. This is what happens when you rip the booze, meat, cheese, caffeine and sugar from your intestinal tract. Not only are my constitutionals mind blowingly weird, but I no longer remember what it’s like to be alive and human. I haven’t ran, ridden, or strength trained since Day 1; my body doesn’t know how to exert itself but instead dedicates itself to purging itself of the flesh and making me miserable.
DAY 5: Phuck the flesh.
DAY 6: Still gooey and fluy. And, I haven’t been able to get it up since that skanky dank cuppa cake at that shitty princess pit. My misery makes me a thorn in your brain.
DAY 7: The last day of hell and I’m still sick. The detox has done wonders for my spirit, but next time it’s shrooms in the desert.
The semester starts in a couple of weeks and whiskey calls, “Jimmy, Jimmy.” I’m no triple-fister so there is only one way to answer the call: cigarette in left hand, coffee in right hand, Lagavulin erect in my crotch.