crack back

You would be sitting on the couch and watching tv. It is most likely Seinfeld. There would be a heavy odor of cigarettes hanging in the air, but you wouldn’t smell it because your nosed would be stuffed up. you would always have a stuffed up nose. It would be perpetual. Your eyes would be losing focus on the screen, letting it blur into a series of flickering images, each one indecipherable from the next. Boredom would be soaking through you. The world outside, planes and cars and streetlamps and chatter, would fold into a steady hum. The center of the couch, where two cushions meet, would grow weak under the weight of you, and begin to sink. Out of the corner of your conscious a melody breaks into your thoughts, a familiar jingle rings in your skull. And suddenly

You are cracked back to the year 2000 and you are twenty five years old. There is sweat on your face and neck and it shines when the sunlight hits it. your eyes are cross and heavy and slanted and they are cursing a girl standing near your decks, playing the same record over and over again. Her face is in the same shape as yours but some strange dementia has lifted it up some, so she has the upper hand because she’s more awake. You lay down and try to pretend your’e sleeping, hoping that maybe she’ll get lonely and leave your house. You hear her pull back the needle so she can play the song again. She says she is waiting for her ride to pick her up. You are kicking yourself because you didn’t go to bed earlier. You are kicking yourself because you are nice, and generous, and have been awake so long that even though the thought of sex makes your sweaty skin itch. the amphetamine pervert inside of you hoped that maybe this crazy chick would let you touch her tits, so you let her stay after everyone else had gone to bed. And she didn’t let you touch her tit and she still did all your drugs. And you didn’t mind because she was cute and wacky and weird in a curious sort of way. And then she said she had no way to get home. and then you got very tired. And then she was standing near your turntables, fumbling with the tone arm, trying to cue up the same depeche mode single she has been playing non stop for the past hour or so, and all you want to do is go to sleep. And you hear the opening drone of the synthesizer once more, and

You shake yourself back awake and on the tv screen Kramer is twitching and saying something funny. You would wonder to yourself then, whatever happen to that girl? You would remember that she seemed dangerously off kilter, and that she had pretty eyes. That they were dark and quiet and had a sort of dislocated way about them, as if she sometimes didn’t even know she was looking at something. They were seeing a thing, but she didn’t know or didn’t care what it was. You would not remember how she got home that morning. You would not remember ever seeing her again after that. And a sadness would crash softly in your stomach as your realized that maybe doing speed wasn’t the best for her. That maybe she never connected fully, and she is still in san Francisco, trying to find herself in a song over and over again. And it would occur to you, the profound magnitude of sensation that you can have in just one second, is just one of the many facets of life you take for granted. Also, you are not very fond of Depeche Mode.