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 Posted: Mon Oct 10, 2016 6:29 pm
Original title: 15 Years Ago -- Gotham City
If you find this journal, just know that my life could've been a lot more different from how I am right now. I'm currently writing this as a freshman -- if by freshman as someone whose coming into the college system for the first time -- to practice a specific narrative. A stream of consciousness popularized by James Joyce and Virginia Wolff. Now I'm not perfect in any way, nor do I claim to be. I admit that even I have flaws -- but by writing this out I can at least know where my state of mind is at this moment.
Well where to begin? I guess the best place to start is...
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Posted: Mon Oct 10, 2016 7:31 pm
June 11th -- 11:12 AM; 98 degrees Fahrenheit; Year 1; 0
That particular Sunday, Jesus was it hot like a motherfcker. I could feel the sweat under my pit becoming a cesspool. Actually no, it wasn't just my pits; my back, my crotch; the back of my legs; everything was just hot and sticky for me. Professionalism be damned -- next time I see Sionis I'm going to give that bstard an earful on wearing a suit on a hot day. Sure theres a chance I'll get shot and yeah there's a high percent chance that I'll probably get shot in the crotch for it but damn it who the hell thinks it's a good idea wearing a suit on a 90 degree day? The Gotham smog was wringing my body like a girl that doesn't know when to quit. Wish that btch was real, I'd introduce her to Mr. 1911 and tell her to enjoy her morning breakfast -- full of iron and nutritious sulfur, charcoal, and potassium nitrate.
God Damnit, this heat is killing me -- and fckface Tony whatever-the-fck-his-last-name-is didn't fix the AC before the job (probably something Italian -- not to sound racist but 80% of the time you go on this job its those marinara spaghetti loving, fettuccine chicken alfredo mastrubating, Angel Hair rim job fetish bstards that are normally associated with it). That fckface ruined my suit -- and here he is eating big Kahuna burger next to me -- like nothing is wrong with the world. For him, it's a typical Sunday. Fcking Italians.
My hand moved to the radio -- oh god I can feel that flood of sweat just sloshing around my pit -- my sweat is defying the laws of physics and is magnetized to my shirt and my pit -- a scientific wonder, or a scientific fckup. I switched on the FM, oh right...DJ Mickey Love ain't coming on for another hour. No, instead we got this Californian b***h with that stereotypical Valley Girl accent for another hour. So here I am sitting in this hellhole of a car, driving 25 miles per hour, next to a ftass Italian piece of sht and this high pitched harpy cnt.
Fcking fckface Tony fcking his own fcking burger of his -- smacking his lips whenever he can and getting the ketchup all over the seat. Fcking fat piece of sht, I just cleaned this car. I felt the grenade of a growl blow from my throat -- slowing down for that stop sign, behind three other cars. Someone just get me the hell out of here. I can't do this -- not today at least.
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Posted: Mon Oct 10, 2016 8:00 pm
July 16th -- 9:18 AM; 82 Degrees Fahrenheit; Year: 2; 3
The first car moseyed on by -- and even though I know it's hell for me, I fished out my golden cigarette case (complementary of Sionis -- a nice little welcoming gift for all the recruits- mine is getting beaten around, I could feel some of the dents and scratches on the case as I pulled them out). Flicking it open as I slowly moved the car forward, I pulled one out and flicked it closed. The symmetrical stick of death balanced in between my lips, I pushed the car lighter -- watching the second car speed on by. Didn't take long for the thing to pop out -- it won't be long before fckface on my right fades away.
Pulling the light out and lighting the fatty up, I quickly pushed the lighter back into the car -- wouldn't want to burn myself on the job, don't want these Italian bstards to have something to laugh about with their family. I'm guessing they have a family -- all Italians have a fcking family to eat with. It's their fcking tradition for crying out loud. Dragging the smoke out, I thanked whatever god was up in that high sky for remembering to roll the night before with the Afghan Kush (which again was complementary of Sionis for another "job well done"). The spliff tasted delicious, the mix between the earthy/woody taste of the kush and the spicy savory sprits was making me calm. All the little things that I was btching about was disappearing. It was like butter just melting away.
It aint long before we get to the place, might as well talk with the fat bstard "Aight," I began, flicking the ashes out from the window "tell me b'out de hash bar." Murmuring the request, I gently placed the spliff back to my mouth, the smell was incense to me. It kept me calm and relaxed, ready for the job -- no need for the boss's short temper to piss me off that's for sure. I have to keep the job clean and diplomatic. Waiting for him to answer, I heard Tony crumpling the wrapper while the window tiredly screeched down, his grunts nearly got me to lose my focus on the road as the sound of his garbage tumbling onto the ground outside vibrated within my ears. "K' den, whatchu wanna know?"
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Posted: Mon Oct 10, 2016 8:18 pm
August 13 -- 8:45 AM; 78 degrees Fahrenheit; Year: 3; 7
Disbelief echoed into my voice, I need to reaffirm with this fatass. "Yer tellin' me dat hash is legal 'dere?"
"Legal" Tony affirmed, "But it ain't a hundred percent legal, naw'mean? Ye' can't jes walk into a restaurant, roll'ep a joint and jes start puffin' away naw'mean?"
That makes sense, proper decor for the guests -- Sionis would say. You can be the ugliest motherfcker in the place but act prim and proper and its the jackasses that are talking behind the backs that become the ugliest bstards in the room. Liberalism be damned -- speakin of puffin -- I dragged another puff from the spliff, the high quickly kickin in. Tony the fckface became Moses, droppin the 10 commandments of smokin' weed and hashs like a sermon to the stoners. "It's like Cali, naw'mean? It's kinda legal dere, but dey want ye to smoke eider at yer home or certain designated places."
"And dees designated places, dere hash bars?"
"Yep" Tony confirmed, "Goes like dis right: it's legal to buy it, legal to own it, and if yer de per-pri-e-tor of de hash bar it's within yer legal rights to sell it." he paused as we stopped at the red light. "It's legal to carry it, b-but that dun matter, cause git a load of dis." He giggled -- yeah giggled, I can't even wrap my head around that, a fat Italian man giggling at something, but apparently whatever the hell he was going to say was going to be pretty damn funny. "If ye git stopped by a cop in Amsterdam, it's illegal for them to search ye."
That got my attention. Tony smirked over at my direction as my eyes met his, "I mean, dats a right that the cops over at Amsterdam dun have."
Scoffing I quietly murmured a "holy s**t" to myself. "I mean," I took around drag of my spliff, "There's gotta be a caveat to dat."
"Well yeah," Tony nodded, "Ye gotta pay taxes."
Well sht. Who knew it'd be damn expensive to be a hippie.
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