at your service b/w surgical entries vol 2

i love how in new york you can get anything delivered. its as if the city has taken sympathy upon us for having to do so much commuting as it is. once you get caught up in the fury of metropolitan pace, and the demands it makes for your time and your effort and your please can i get a rest, there is no room for running the side missions. the energy is spent, the body gets beat, you cant overheat, you gotta take a break. so this fine cosmopolitan jungle has granted us some pity, and offered up a solution, for a decent price, anything and everything will come to you.

you can get a big mac, some fries, a mcflurry, and the newly christened QPC, formally known as the quarter pounder with cheese [le royal with cheese in amsterdam], wine, groceries [and im talking from the corner bodega, not fresh direct, so you can get cigarettes and 22's of ol' e if you want], any type of food, batteries, hookers [but i guess thats in every city so that kinda doesnt count.], and my personal favorite: drugs.

i mostly get weed through delivery, though i have scored some mushrooms and cocaine too. i know of a guy that has other substances but i gotta call one of my flaky queen friends who is just SO busy being the most FABULOUS bitch on earth that it takes like an entire week for him to even reach out to the substance guy [and i just cant be waitin, if and when i wanna get high, i wanna get high NOW and not an hour, or week for that matter, later], so i usually dont bother with callin him. i'll just wait until we are having some glorious neon night and ill tell him to call the guy right then. that always works, cuz they know they are gonna get high too.

but the weed guys are gravy. and there are so many of them, that you always got a plan B and C. the weight of their sacks [which come in jars or "boxes"] usually dont weigh up. mostly like 2.5 and if youre lucky 3 grams to an eighth. no worries though, it aint bad and there aint much else i can do about it. and it comes to me so in the end, ITS GREAT!


remember high school dude?

i mean, just an hour and a half ago i called some cat and told him where i lived and wished him a good day. dood just hopped in his ride and swooped through with some thick nuggets [thats right nigga, still got some of that cali slang in me, what?] and burnt out within 1 minute. no para. no hassles. no worries. like that: boom. its done, and im blazed.

now i couldnt do that shit in disco. hell nah. i would always have to call some guy who would never answer the phone. wait for him to call back [because i would always just have to hope he would call back, it was all i had: hope, that he would call back, i would lie to people with faux optimism -no, chill out dude. he ALWAYS calls back, i would promise. but i was never sure, just hoping. still, sometimes you have to manipulate order within your crowd]. then when he or she would call back, 5 hours later with some excuse that they were at a homies house and their dog started puking so they had to take it to the vet or something], they then explain to you that "they are home now and you can come over." so you gotta take a long ass trip burdened with jones in tow, to some filthy stoner dump that smells like old food, spilt beer and bong water, make the most awkward and impatient drug exchange ever [after that wait and then the travel over there, any social discourse is entirely out of order], then trek all the way back to the castle before you get stoned. that shit is WACK.

but not in the nyc. so hells yeah bitches, im BAKED [more cali twang fo dat ass eat].

even though i probably shouldnt be smoking much yet. meh.

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everynight like clockwork at 1 am the women in the room next to me would start screaming bloody murder. the first night i thought she was literally dying. he voice was horse and desperate and he pleas came out in more of a howl than a scream. HEEEEELP MEE!!!! HEEEEEEEEEELLLLLPPP MEEE NOOOOOOOOOWWWW!!!!!! it was a horror. i envisioned blood splattering about the room. a broken leg hanging precariously from the bed. a blood soaked hospital gown. a heart squeezing shut. but nah. she was just anxious. depressed. filled with paranoia. slight schizophrenia, a know the tone well, they finally sedated her by 3 am. i only slept an hour that night, and only when i had enough painkillers to put me out for a bit.

the next night was the same and so was the next. like clockwork, this woman was murdered every single night at 1am. i became to look forward to it by the last night i was there. it was comforting, hearing her demand to be cured. like someone was voicing this agony we all felt. i dont think one patient complained. not even her dying roomate.