Posts Tagged ‘drugs’

Living on cheap wine and Marlon Brando, sweet wine, the stuff would make you want to die, throwing up on some lonely street corner, fifth and Vine.

Worlds were colliding, forced into making up, out, fucked, before being fucked was a thing.

July 5th, I found life on this shit hole planet, not much to write home about, two girls, Jim and Jan, maybe one was a guy, I wasn’t sure as the motley crew of drugs I had taken back in the city were starting to wear off.

“Recharge Mort! Refuckingcharge!” Dave, my travel companion and tax attorney was screaming from the back seat of the car we had stolen back in town.

I tried to remember if I was driving or if the imaginary bunny we had brought along was.

Turned out, nobody was, we were head up, ass down, in some parking lot in front of some dying casino known as the Flying J according to the blinking flashing sign.

“Bell hop!! Our bags!” I said snapping my fingers randomly, towards a midget nearest the door.

He smiled as he flipped us off and we climbed out of the car and into the casino/hotel/bordello.

We got two rooms, one bed, we wouldn’t be sleeping anyways, this was a business trip, to find that meaning of life, in the desert town of where ever we found ourselves.

“Do we have enough drugs?” Dave asked peeking into the large over-sized suitcase we had brought on this adventure.

“We got madness man, pure madness!” I replied popping two red pills and downing them with cheap Canadian beer bought from a Mexican farmer in some backwater town in Alabama.

I don’t remember much after the madness kicked in.

Blurry vision of me, Dave stumbling down the stairs, to the lobby, where the whores stood in line.

“We are not whores dear sir!” one fat ugly whore rambled on.

We weren’t here for the whores, we were here to find the story, the big story, the senator slinking his wet willy into a whore who wasn’t his wife.

Or maybe we were here to kill ourselves.

Dave was hoping for the senator.

He was here to keep me from going too far over the edge, or maybe I was here to keep him from going too far over the edge.

Neither of us knew what the other was for.

We took another hand full of pills.

Crazy mix of colors, for a random effect, later that night we found ourselves in the desert, chasing after pigeons, to communicate with our spirit animal.

I woke up three days later, face down, on some railroad tracks, last train left according to the locals in 1963.

I was 40 years too late, 50 if you knew how to count.

Dave was laying into a plate of hash brown potatoes and puke at some dingy truck stop.

He had left me to die there, hoping I wouldn’t wake up too soon but there I was, asking the waitress for a plate of goo and a cup of coffee to mask the taste of bourbon I was now dumping into a cup of black moldy coffee.

“Honey, you want some eggs and toast?” the waitress burped, fire ants crawling out of her nose.

I shook my head and popped a handful of rainbow colored pills.

“When do we get to Tucson?” I tried to make conversation with Dave who seemingly had left his body to go find a place to take a piss.

“Man, we ain’t going to Tucson!” he finally said, three hours later, as we traveled down the road, the steering wheel being steered by a bat we picked up in Cleveland.

The sign read ‘Truth or Consequences 25 miles’ we didn’t want neither of that so we roared past the turn off, into some purple haze that drifted up from the road, engulfing us in fumes.

“Man where are we going?” Dave looked around trying to get his sense of time and space, the drugs beginning to loosen their gripe.

“Here, take these!” I said throwing him a bag of colored pills I had gotten from my grandmother, a doctor. “You’re losing your reality! We’re heading into badger country man, don’t lose your wits!! They’re animals!!”

35 miles down the road, I lost my mind, it fell out of my ears and dripped onto the highway, trying to crawl out in the desert to find life.

“Oh no you don’t!” I said shoving it back into my head.

We were back on the road, after taking a long needed piss and a scratch.

An over-sized badger strolled up beside us.

“Is this leak taken?”

We all laughed.

It was half past a monkey’s ass by the time we reached Tucson.

A seedy place, Tucson, the kind of place where men are men and the sheep are afraid to pick up the soap.

We were suppose to meet my editor, Jackson, in Tucson, but he never showed.

He gave me some story about being 2 am, showering, sleeping, who the fuck knew.

I hung up the phone.

“So what do we do now?”Dave asked, lining up the coke in neat piled lines, snorting it straight into his spleen.

I shrugged, grabbing a straw, we’d worry about the next day, three days later, and ten whores down.


Things I have learned throughout my life as a blogger — Advice to the future  or How I learned to love myself in the modern age of Dance

A Look inside a Human Machine by Jason Giecek Human at Large

01/21/2019 – Louisville, Kentucky

I started blogging in 2008 on a site called Open.Salon, it was a fun time activity I began after working at a casino ran by the mob (Or Caesars and later Horseshoe) as an IT worker, breaking computers with a hammer or TNT as they wouldn’t reboot properly.

It was a good time to be alive.

I wrote about the crazy thoughts that poured into my skull and out of my fingers at 3 AM, a thing I still practice today except I don’t stay up that late, usually curling up into a ball in my bed at around 1:30 in the AM, still late for some.

Truthfully honest, I’ve been writing for a lot longer than 2008, I actually been writing my entire life, but, very rarely sharing my tomes, except for one girl I knew back in the third grade.

She laughed at me and that’s when I found out, women are cruel witches put on this planet to make men sad and miserable at their “Short comings!”

I kid.

Some were put on this planet to just run men over in their cars.

Moving on.

I discovered early on that in writing, sad depressive pieces sell better.

Not exactly sure why, maybe people like to read about people having more issues than them.

Happy love stories make them think their lives aren’t as good as the writer’s and it makes them sad whereas, they read a sad story, poetry, etc. and they’re like, “At least I’m not that guy!”

It’s like sad movies, sometimes we just need a good cry, get all the pain out of the system.

I will admit, most of my poetry is sad, depression filled words, from a deep dark place that is called me.

Sometimes when I write such things, I’m in happy land, but just picking at old wounds scabbed up.

For some reasons, we as humans like to pick at scabs, open up old wounds, bring up old memories, things that haunt us as we sleep, dream of old loves, loves that never were, etc. etc.

I really suck at letting go.

I think I get that feature from my mother’s side of the gene pool.

Along with me worrying about things I cannot change.

About the little things.

The big deals usually roll off of my back, becoming fertilizer for my writings, there sitting in some chair at 3 am.

Actually, the little things become good fertilizer as well.

I think everything can be used to grow the imagination, except the news, the news sucks!

Nobody likes to read about current events, unless, it’s a spoof of current events.

People love reading funny things about like Senators and Congressmen and sexy governors in lingerie.

The governor’s name?


Anyways, that’s about it, I write to keep from going insane. Well, more insane.

Okay, I write to keep from wandering the streets and get in trouble with the law.

Good night and have a better tomorrow…