tattoo tales of joy

Sipping on a white Russian reminiscing on days past, fixating on the crazed fact that the progression of time is becoming more reminiscent of a hazed mash. Flashes of walking fishes confirm my fears and loathing in Las Vegas. Reflecting on the thoughts and non-thoughts of my preferred personal policy, seeking sanctuary among the pariahs and the partakers in the sorcery of logic.

The logic of the illogical serves to justify many oxymora, such as the rationale behind the irrational destruction of an ideology. Last night a magic midget mocked me merrily, seemed somewhat amused at my suggestion that I seek clarity. With my middle fingers crossed I attempt to say a prayer, but am hindered by graphic pictures of a people that pay for progress. Standing on wobbly stilts I make a sad attempt at sarcasm, middle finger pointed up as I stick it to the man. The entirety of my actions can best be described as laughable, or a measly misadventure fervently lacking in any depth.

Last night a magic midget had a mega time mocking me, seemed amused at my suggestion that it was all finally clear to me. The irrational and the illogical are birthed from rational and logical conclusions, hence the rationality of my non-conclusions is but the continuation of a vicious but virtuous circle. I cross my middle finger as I attempt to say a prayer, but I am hindered by the possibility of the discovery of perfection. The theoretical assertion that perhaps an absolute end exists will put an end to my current existence so let’s just play pretend.

Vodka Tequila Absinthe: An Ode to Jonkoping

The spirit of white spirits creep and hover round the room, jacking up the tunes as we casually play chess. Sitting in a chatty circle as we chip away the shots, go from good to gud to gouwd as we shoot the Russian tea. We raise our sixes to God and country in a unified Nastarovia, the chess game is now on "hold" and the tough guys are now so bold. Our conviction is Absolute so we go absolutely blue, but even with a Yeltsin compromise we are Absolutely true.

The transition from home to disco is a freak show of flashing pictures. No coherent coordination, no adherence to cordial conduct. We lost two men back at home and a third has fallen on the bus, They were raped by the ritual of the rugged Russian tea and now wreak of puke and liquor. The remainder of the platoon randomly staggers into the club, then we feel our way to the bar. Sixes of tequilas and am not talking rose, but we get the shots in six standing rows.somewhere down the road the tequila becomes suicidal; the salt goes up your nose and the lime down your eyes ... these are your last memories for the night and your height can dwarf a kite.five more men fall and three are left standing, narration of subsequent events must be done in the third person:

His world begins to spin and then he picks up his phone, drunks calls potato and talks some stuff i dont know. "are you a fucking Nazi" he says to the skin head beside, then is politely told to fuck off as he is pushed to the side. He proceeds to the bathroom and takes a piss in the sink, walks out with his zip down and drunk migrates to the lounge. He bumps into this random girl that had asked him out in his class, he tells her "sorry I only date Asians" while adjusting his hat. He runs into his last two standing comrades who just as wasted as him, they drunk migrate to the bar and now it is looking pretty grim. I wish i could say they were at the bar to buy some mint, no, he talks to the bar tender "please three sixes of absinthe" ...