Night in the Ruts

Truly, An Amazing Spectacle - Nicky

I woke up in the middle of the fuckin' night (right around nine AM) with the cold sweats after a horrible dream.

        Well, it wouldn't've been so horrible if it was just the pretty blond girl, but Charlie and Aerosmith were involved too.  Particularly the Steven character.

        There was a bowling alley I didn't immediately recognize as a place I'd been to ever (though it vaguely resembled Harry's Houdinis).  And there was a song playing–some sixties song.  Come to think of it, the bowling alley looked much like the one about half an hour from Boston, Massachusetts, but before it was revamped in early nineteen-seventy.  Strange.

        Anyway, I believe the song was called Will You Still Love Me Tomorrow by The Shirelles, and in the corner by a little minibar, two people were standing.  A gorgeous blond babe in a green and white vertically pinstriped dress was making out with some guy that had these unruly brown curls.  At first I thought the guy was me, but I don't have long hair, nor is this the time or place for an out-of-body experience.

        I soon realized that the guy was Steven.  Charlie's so-called boyfriend.  The rest of the band was bowling with Charlie (who was as clueless as a school-girl) while Steven and this chick ate each other's faces, so to speak.

        But then the blond girl was suddenly Charlie.  Blondie was nowhere to be found–oh no, wait, she's over there with the dark-haired dude that came up with the Chocolate Factory pun.  They're laughing and talking and having a good time.

        And I'm very, very confused.  Then Charlie goes off to the bathroom or something and Blondie comes back, and she and Steven are again sucking face.  It goes back and forth while I sit at a nearby table and stuff my grill with mozzarella sticks and Coca Cola.

        Right before I was going to let out a rather large and loud belch, I lurched awake, sitting bolt upright and rushing to the bathroom to (hopefully) finish off my last round of getting rid of the blotters Marky have me again.  That douche-bag.

        At nine in the morning, though, I realized that (after what can only be described as puking my innards out) I was starved.  You see, unlike some people (ahem, Marky), Danny gives me the real deal Mary-Jane.  Always has, and I trust him.

        My first instinct was to call Charlie.  She's pretty good at interpreting my fake-LSD-induced nightmare/dream/trip things.

        Jesus, this is the second fucking time that Marky's given me fake shit!

        But I can't call Charlie on this one–it was about her!  I've got no one else, though.  Nobody.

--

Once my fantastically explosive vomit-spree was finished, I scarfed down a large bowl of Cap'n Crunch with rootbeer substituting for milk because Mom, once again, forgot to buy more.  Though to be honest, I probably would've used the rootbeer anyway.  And after that, I managed to find a package of cookies and ate just one short of a million.

        And by that time, it was only twenty after nine.  And the fake-acid took up about fifteen minutes of my time this wonderful morning.  Fuck you, Marky.  So I wager, after a shower, I could be at Charlie's house by a quarter til ten.  Perfect.

        With a plain purple V-necked teeshirt and black jeans, it would be difficult not to notice my hangover–what with the swollen purple bags under my eyes (the purple in my shirt really brought them out), and the fact that they're all bloodshot, and how I'm paler than usual... The list goes on.