When you're starting to crash, you got to hang onto something. That sorrow comes rushing down to the bone as your tongue gets sandy and you suddenly have nothing left to say. Your brain starts to play tricks on you like it's a sworn enemy, and your muscles twitch and twist into knots.
Nope. That sorrow doesn't level off until hours later when you've already botched your hook-up with yet another Internet girl in another room of some other motel on the road to hell. After she disappears out the door in her pajamas, all you can remember is your fingers playing like claws over damp skin that felt as lumpy as popcorn tossed on a blanket, dull, black hair, a spider tattoo as big as your fist covering one breast, and your dick wilting under the drugs and the tactile disgust.
It's a cosmic joke, this feeling of perfection the shit gives you at first snort in return for dark hours of tooth-grinding, head-fucking fear. It's like being on a trampoline you can't get off as your chest fills with helium in the middle of a party full of assholes that speak Esperanto. You look past the plastic-backed curtains and notice it's another fucking sunny day and the bitch stole your sunglasses. You turn your back to the light and lick the tiny mirror clean, then the dollar bill, hoping to capture another minute or two of glory.
Put me in a line-up and I promise you, I'll get fingered every time.