"Hey Elvis!"

"Mmmmmm... It tastes like early death." She said as she took a drag from her freshly lit cigarette. I thought
to myself, well, so does breathing or eating a sugar cookie, I'm sure. I guess the point I'm trying to get at here
is to do whatever makes getting through the day easier on you, whether it be eating fruit or drinking poison. She
sucked the smoke into her lungs like she was in love. I had woken up at 8pm that evening, still drunk on rum and
beer. I had received good news the day before then. I got hired at a book store and I guess, because of it, I had to celebrate
real hard. Too hard.
The first night my friend James and I drank a 60 of rum. When I woke up at 8 o clock the next
evening there were already people coming over to his apartment. His brother Andre had purchased some CLIT (as we
called it all evening) Coors Light Iced T beer. What a treat. The only thing I could really fight down and I blabbered on drunkenly
about why my Iced T was beer flavoured. James got another 60 of rum. I almost vomited every time I watched them all take shots again and I could hardly stand up straight when I went out for a cigarette. Piss poor shape.
I went at the thing dreadfully. Choking down CLIT after CLIT and making wise cracks at how I was going to pass out and
expire if I kept this up. 6 down. Music on. Buzz getting strong. Line up the shots!
Flashback!
8:00am that morning.
James' hand was on the back of my neck and he was holding me up straight by the collar of my shirt. We were
staggering down a busy street by a high school. Kids were getting ready to go to class. Some were outside
talking to each other and gossipping, and trying to smoke, whatever high school kids do. James and I were
still awake and yes, oh yes, we were more intoxicated than most people should be if it were a Friday night
and it was your birthday. I needed a coffee, or so I had thought. So we decided to carry each other to the
nearest Tim Hortons while I tried to order a cup of coffee without throwing my guts up standing there in line.
We made it. I was wearing sunglasses so as not to show anyone the shifty black holes that had exchanged
places with my eyeballs. The entire place was spinning. There were high school kids all around me and I could feel them all staring at me. Giving me these horrid looks. I felt clammy and ethereal. James was talking to some girls behind us and I jolted around to say something. The words never came. So I stared at them for a bit, wobbling and swaying and trying not to drool
before I turned back around to figure out what in the hell the reason was that I came into this place for.
I thought about it for a while glaring at a case of soda and attempting to hold my legs stiff.
"Hey!"
"Hey Elvis!" I heard faintly in the background of my thoughts.
"Hey Elvis!!" One of the employee's was yelling at me to place my order.
"Hmmmm?" I mumbled back.
"What are you having?!" she yelled at me.
"Mmmmm Uhhhh Mmmmm regular..." I replied.
She laughed and poured me a coffee not knowing what size I had wanted. I actually don't quite recall how I even
paid for the thing but I got it and it was mine.
I toppled my way out of that store like I had just held it up at gun point.
"James! ... James... Hold my coffee man, Just... Just hold my coffee for me." I couldn't keep the fucker straight for the
life of me. I had managed to spill half of it all over my hands and shirt.
So there we were... Walking down the street at 8:00am in the morning. James' hand on my collar holding me up straight
and a coffee in his other hand while I stammered over figuring out the mechanics of my lighter to get my
god damned cigarette lit.
"Uuuuuuhhhhhhhh" I proclaimed as I slammed back another shot.
This was no longer drinking for fun. This had become drinking for sport. I had more rum in my body than blood.
But sometimes this is just what we do instead of eating fruit, ya know?
Why do I do these borderline psychotic things to myself?
Why do we?
Its like anything else, really. Its an experience. Something to live through. I could write to you all about beautiful things. I could write about how wonderful
the hot sun felt today beating down on my face. I could write about the happiest times and the portions of my life when
I had been completely content. When it comes down to it, I find a concrete sense of realism in the nitty-gritty. I find
truth in the muck and that getting covered in mud only means you'll have to find someway to get clean again. This isn't about solving world hunger, or an in depth perception of our world's politics and greed. This is about the other guy. The guy just getting by with what he has. His art, his drink, his music, and his stories. This is blatant
beauty. This is the only rose in my garden....
She exhaled and coughed a little as the second hand smoke poured back out of her lungs. She looked at me and her face cringed
just a little bit.
We both shared a good laugh...