NEEDLING

FIRST BREAKDOWN

Something’s drastically wrong. I’ve spent over twenty two hundred bucks this week. I’ve got a new car, new clothes, and cheap beer in the fridge. I no longer have any money anywhere in any bank or on any credit card… that I know of. I’m living in a tiny studio behind my landlady’s house paying no rent in exchange for a little help here and there. And I feel as if something is missing, something is not right, something is wrong. The other day Tracy said I looked middle class. My car, the one I just bought, is the nicest cleanest car I’ve ever owned, the clothes I’m wearing insinuate that I’m a clean honest respectful dependable type of guy, my bank says so far I have great credit… keep it up sonny… they’re sending me new credit cards in the mail, though I don’t have a real address yet. Shit. I even did all that on purpose so as to get an office job with air conditioning and a swiveling chair, buy a duplex house so as to rent half of it, live the American dream, baby. What the hell am I doing? Something is drastically wrong with me. I need drugs, alcohol, more drugs, more alcohol. I want pills, powder, and strong drinks. I’m in America for god’s sake. In Texas only a few hundred miles from the border. Tomorrow, I’m cleaning a house for my landlady, and her property manager should give me some cash for doing that. All I need is fifteen bucks to fill the gas tank, another few bucks to buy a couple cases of beer, and enough energy to drive down to El Paso. That’s the goal, my man, Pancho’s hide out, the mystical border town, the passage through the mountains, the oasis in the desert, the door to America, the gates to hell, hell being freedom from bushwacking lies and masturbatory dreams of prayers in school. Did you hear? Midland-Odessa, only two hours from Snyder, Bush country, pure inbred bible-thumping Dubya Wanker Oil country, half those city’s respectful leaders were arrested in a prostitution ring. You know why? Cause there’s nothing to do there. Can’t even drink, them being still in the middle of prohibition down yonder in them there parts. Forgot what I was talking about. Forget about it. I need not grass but white powder. I need not beer but plastic gallon Turkey drinks. I need not this city but the desert peyolte sunset macadam redneck trailer-park bars. Something called Lavern’s or something called Conchita’s. WHAT THE FUCK AM I DOING HERE?

Posted by: François Pointeau / 13:48