It's bright and hell is hot

I should probably get used to the heat. Due to my lifestyle choices I can believe in Christianity as much as I want but I feel like if I were to OD at any given minute and I got to the gates they would be like, naw man sorry. "But wait, I totally believed in you the whole time!" That makes you worse, at least all the other sinners thought they were worm's meat.

Fuck.

But unfortunately for you I'm not dying anytime soon because the worst always live the longest. That said, it is hot as shit in Hollywood today. Hot to the point where my thighs are breaking out in heat rash and my balls are no longer sweating because my body is out of moisture...that's dry heat homey. August is pretty shitty right? It signifies the end of summer which is sad, even though that doesn't really mean anything anymore. It will still be 72 degrees in Venice all day every day, and football season will be here, that's great, but there's just an inherent sadness to the end of summer. Not like I'll be losing some awesome summer fling, losing some intern fuck buddy...in fact hopefully it will cool the fuck down so that when I'm running my pledge-esque PA errands in Hollywood, I can do so without risk of heat strokes.

Quick side note: The 3 worst places in the world to wake up are as follows. In ascending order...3) You wake up in bed with an ugly girl that has vomited on you in your sleep. 2) You wake up in prison sans a jail buddy and you badly have to take a shit. Not fun to drop logs in front of an overweight gay man and have him critique your ass wiping skills. 1.) Waking up in a tent in 100 degree heat hungover. Nothing is worse, not even facial ringworm is worse than waking up in an unshaded tent at 6 in the morning with nowhere to run to or hide.

I have just reversed my stance on summer, fuck you I'm over it. I think people get hung up on seasons a lot. Back in the day I used to subscribe to the theory that you had to go balls to the wall during summer because it was nice out and that was not to be taken for granted. Even controlling (that's science bitch) for the fact that I live in a climate that never changes, even the midwest is kind of pissing on the old idea of seasonality. What did you have 3 cold days last year? It was 50 during the Super Bowl in Indianapolis? The truth is, using summer as an excuse is just a coping mechanism that people use to do what it is they really want to do, it's called rationalization.

For example, you are a chick that works in consulting, it's a Wednesday and you call your girlfriend and lament about how much fun it was to go to karaoke night when you first graduated college. "Remember we would go out until one in the morning and get blitzed and then stumble into work a little late on Thursday either drunk or hungover from the night before, wasn't that fun? Let's do it tonight." So what happens is you both say, well summer is almost over and you go out and get slammed by some Boston College bro on the last week of his internship and you chalk it up to summer antics.

Girl in example one may think that her whacky Wednesday is a once in a while type affair and is really "so unlike her" but when you lean on the crutch of excuses, it turns out, you really are a slut that likes to party midweek, even if you don't do it often, you want to, and there is nothing wrong with that. It' just what gets you off.

The big reveal is that people are going to find excuses for their borderline amoral behavior and questionable decision making because to say "I felt like getting fucked up and finding a dick" is generally frowned on by society. Unless you are someone comfortable in their own skin such as myself, it may seem a bit nerve racking to publicly declare your debauchery without a reason for it. What are we celebrating? What is the special occasion? What commemorative event are we honoring? Not enough people say, I'm going to get drunk and have sex tonight because I'm a human being and it quells my physical, social and mental needs. I for one am still impressed that the human body goes to sleep and wakes up...No big deal, I just pressed the of button for 8 hours and then without flipping a switch I miraculously turned myself back on.

When you are young you have the luxury of doing whatever the fuck you want. That's the excuse I'm going to run with until I'm 30. Some people may find it disconcerting that I'm still acting like a 19 year old Sophomore living in a party room, but at least I don't rationalize my existence. I'm probably not going to change the world, unless I release some novel that wakes the world up to generation Y's narcissistic and nihilistic leanings. I assure you I am not trying to shove my MFA down your throat, I am simply trying to put across to you the bleakness that I live in and how few a fucks I give.

The truth is, I am going to Santa Monica pier tonight for a beach party. The reason being is that I have no responsibility in this world to anyone but myself and it's going to be fucking awesome. No excuse, just my own selfish reasoning. Work your summer hours, get it while the getting is good, but even after the vernal equinox feel free to rage, and when your uppity friends give you a questioning "really how old are you" look tell them to get on their fucking face and eat a dick. There's my Ayn Rand Objectivism for the day, my self centered hedonism is my biggest asset.

Joshua Tree

One of the worst things about being gainfully employed is I start to slip into familiar patterns. I stop writing, I stop working out. Basically I come home from work all day and turn into a couch monster from 8 to midnight. Some nights I'll try to jack myself up and buy a coffee on the way home or a bottle of wine, but it's usually worthless. I WILL WRITE TONIGHT. I end up getting drunk to old reruns of Gossip Girl and then jerking off to Blake Lively's leaked nude photos and calling it a night. See that's what you do as a 25 year old ex frat guy living in LA. You destroy your nostrils on the weekends and you relax during the week. At some point that reverses, the weekends are used as rest but for now every week is just a grind until 5 pm on Friday when you can begin the 72 hour rave again.

There was a time in my life that I thought I was awesome because of this. Fuck ya, I go to the Santa Monica Pier and beach party on Thursdays while you losers watch Storage Wars, my life rocks! But it's nothing to necessarily be proud of, it is just what I do. I behave a certain way because I get a certain degree of cheap thrills by it. Some people get cheap thrills by blowing their loads in their wives every night and hoping to make her temporarily fat, but whatever, different strokes. However, not every Saturday can consist of taking 172 shots on a Yacht in Marina Del Rey. Sometimes you just have to get away for a bit. This past Saturday was one of those weekends.

After a brutal Vegas trip the week before, and an unforseen blackout in Manhattan Beach the evening before I vowed to go to a part of the world where I would be protected from my Lollapalooza FOMO. No tweets, no Facebook updates, no drunken calls from my old roommate's little sister. I wanted to get lost. And what better way to get lost than to go to a 1000 square mile national park in the middle of the desert? Saturday morning after waking up on a bathroom floor in Hermosa I drove home to Venice, packed up a blanket a change of clothes my bike and a case of beer and my roommate and I absconded to Joshua Tree national park. 3 hours, a brick of firewood and a pack of hotdogs later we had successfully pitched our tent at Hidden Valley and the first PBR's had been cracked.

The first order of business as always with camping was to meet the neighbors. It's always important to establish how loud you can be, if there is a potential to party with those nearby and if there is any potential for a sexual encounter. Most of my camping trips end with me in a tent with a chick but then again most of my camping trips take place at the Coke lot at the Indy 5. To our left were 6 graduated high school seniors on their last weekend together before college. They were all going to random schools: Utah, UC Riverside (middle of desert) UC Irvine (Orange County) UC Santa Cruz (Smoke a ton of weed) UCLA (Frat) and UC Santa Barbara (Surfer bros hangin loose.) They informed us they brought 10 cases of beer and an ounce of pot. We assured them we would return.

Next we decided to climb a 500 foot rock, because nothing is as bad ass as climbing a fucking mountain. Aron Ralston just shouldn't have slipped, he would probably still have his arm. I climbed the rock in sandals (poor choice) and suffered no such amputation. At the mountain's summit we found a couple promising Russian 6's. You quickly realize that when there is no civilization within hundreds of miles of you, a 6 is quite an impressive score. I don't think the Russians were feeling my vibe though because they never came to the party I invited them to.

After returning the the ground we took a long bike ride through the trails and dirt paths of the desert. It really is one of the most beautiful places on Earth, by the time we returned to base camp to catch the sunset though it was time to party. We quickly killed our case and it was time to hit up the teenagers. Of course as soon as we roll up to their base camp a park ranger arrived to bust up their party. How fucking classic to be part of a high school party bust at the age of 25, it felt like the Goodwin bust of '04. Ranger Rick only managed to abscond with about half of the bud and none of the beer so we ended up staying awake until 1 in the morning giving them college advice. Basically I gave them two rules: Join a frat and always say yes (I also urged them to give up smoking and start drinking more)

That's what you find in the desert. Grilling hot dogs, hiking trails and narrowly avoiding attacks from sidewinder snakes. By the time I returned back to LA Lollapalooza was over and the Newsroom was on...perfect timing. If you ever find yourself in Joshua tree do not underestimate the amount of drugs/booze necessary and make sure to find Hidden Valley #21. You will have your own smoking cave.

I had a rough week and sometimes you just need to get away. The desert is a good place to get lost with your thoughts. It's amazing how much fun you can have sitting on a rock and talking to some kid born in 1994 about WCW vs WWF and then kicking the shit out of him in beer pong or just hitting a roach and seeing a shooting star. I strongly recommend everyone do more camping or just make an effort to be more outdoorsy in general, I know I will. Electricity is overrated and so is a comfortable bed, getting piss drunk in the great outdoors with a 10 dollar tent will set you free.

What Happens in Vegas

I've had a tumultuous month. I finished a pilot, two screenplays, started a new job and went to Austin for an ill-timed vacation. This doesn't even include the weekend/week/weekend sandwich July 4th bender. You may be saying to yourself right now...ok so you had a couple big weekends, big deal. The problem isn't necessarily the weekends, it's the writing. When I write a blog, I usually do it during the day and I drink 2-3 cups of coffee and then just write down whatever pops into my head. However when I write like a screenplay or television pilot or something like that I have the basic idea of a story in my head but I start drinking copious amounts of wine for creative inspiration. It is not uncommon for me to finish 2.5 bottles stay up until 5 in the morning and have no recollection of the last 20 pages I write on a given night.

So when the last weekend of the month came I decided it would be a pretty terrible idea to go rage in Vegas. This 15 bro Vegas trip has been brewing for roughly 6 months, the email chain that was started 4 weeks ago is 217 posts long. People were extremely excited. Not me. If Little 5 this year taught me anything it's that I can't party the way I used to. When people used to say things like "I was so drunk I couldn't stand," I always assumed they were over exaggerating. But I found out race day that it is definitely possible to get that drunk, pavement 1 me 0. I don't know if it's because gambling gives me terrible anxiety, my general hatred of strip clubs or the fact that I am routinely poor, but Vegas has never really been my scene. Every time I go there I get really fucked up and just leave with a terrible physical and moral hangover. Usually the debauchery gets past the point of fun.

Also Vegas is kind of "been there done that" if you live in LA. It's a 4 hour drive (there) people are going every weekend, it's just not as much an endeavor as it might be for someone from the East Coast. So I think to myself "hey, I just have to endure 3 days of tweets and a couple weeks of stories." This will be fine, I can do this.

Wednesday night the Chicago crew comes to L.A. We go out, they talk about Vegas all night. I develop slight FOMO. Thursday night, Team New York arrives in Las Vegas. Team LA drives to Vegas. Team Milwaukee arrives in LA and convinces my roommate to go to Vegas. I get super drunk at the Santa Monica pier black out and am an hour late for work on my 3rd day (I told my bro of a boss I was late because I had to drive a shacker back to Redondo Beach) My FOMO develops a bit further, but I commit to going to Disneyland on Saturday instead of driving to Vegas. Friday night I go to a hotel opening open bar, end up drinking and playing Jeopardy until 6am. I decided at 545 in the morning on Saturday that I'll come.

We arrived in Vegas at 7pm. On the way there we arrange lodging and book a 3 story bungalow inside of Marquee night club for a Krewella show. The bungalow comes with 15 bottles because apparently that's how much you need with 15 guys. I have to say the next 12 hours were the hardest I think I have ever raged in my life. I don't know if it's the atmosphere of Vegas or just the 14 people I was with bringing out the best (and worst) in me, but what followed was a blur of euphoria, highs, lows and questionable realities.

Part of the unfortunate thing about having a non-anonymous blog is that anyone who wants to can read this and know who I am. I would love to tell you who got laid, who lost thousands gambling, who passed out where, who attempted to score drugs from bathroom attendants, but I can't because despite the life that myself and people like me lead, most of us will probably be captains of industry some day. I would hate for a buddy of mine to lose a promotion because a blog post from when he was age 25 surfaced about him licking Sassafras off of a girls nipple in a club. Lucky for me I have chosen an industry in which personal skeletons don't really count for shit, you show me a high up in entertainment that isn't a terrible person and I'll buy you a beer.

But Sunday, it always arrives whether you want it to or not. For a while you think this isn't that bad, we'll grab some In N Out and then cruise back to Cali. And then you see the traffic, and then the hangover begins to set in and then all those feelings of guilt. Oh I have done some very terrible things in my life. Many of my crimes have been victimless but I have definitely dragged some people down with me along the way. But nothing compares to the guilt one feels while leaving Vegas. It seems to manifest physically as you start pouring sweat (if there is any water left in your body) in the middle of the desert as temps soar to 110 degrees. Of the 15 of us that eventually appeared in the group picture Saturday night 12 of them went for 72 hours. Thursday party day and night. The same Friday. The same Saturday. And then 5 day partied Sunday before their red eye. Those are heroes. I am not a hero. 12 hours in Vegas is my max, and I think once every 2 years is also my max. I have no desire to go back there for a very long time. But I will always cherish the memories of this trip.

But until I make that brutal 7 hour drive home again some day, it's been real Vegas, thanks for kicking my ass.

To Live and Die in LA

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Couch Surfing on 44s

Many places in the world have forgotten about Mike Jones. Not Texas. Swisherhouse still dominates that scene and so do confederate flag shorts. I'm not sure if I have ever shared this story on the blog before but I once got attacked in Gulf Shores, Alabama for burning a Confederate flag.

Let me explain. When I was approximately 16 I hit the peak of my random acts of violence. I set garbage cans on fire in my neighborhood, played mailbox baseball and was just a generally nefarious character. I started drinking that year and I think I dabbled in some light shoplifting. I'm probably more morally ambiguous now than I was then but raging until 7am routinely is a victimless crime, stealing police tasers from military surplus stores. Yes we stole lots of shotglasses, a pair of brass knucles a couple lighters and a taser. I'm not sure when we decided to burn an American flag, but we did because the North won dammit. Eventually a few locals that were quite a bit older than us surrounded my group and took their shirts off because I guess that's how southerners fight...I was drunk off Parrot Bay and feeling like a hero so I said something to their leader about him being unpatriotic. He took a swing at me which I dodged and in an instant sent 1000 volts through his neck. Haha, never fuck with a drunk 16 year old with a taser...unfortunately as he laid seizing on the ground I proceeded to get pummeled by his 8 friends...but by the time I was able to wriggle away their leader was still down for the count. I'll call it a draw.

Well that was an unrelated anecdote, but concrete story flow is overrated. Back to Texas, It was awesome, we raged. There was floating, float trips are less fun during a drought, but there was a rope swing...and a concert, and a 2:1 female to male ratio. But what I'm choosing to focus on today are the events that occurred after the party was over. On the bus back to Austin, I realized I hadn't booked a flight and I had pretty much maxed out the only credit card I bought, so I did the only thing imaginable and went to a Starbucks to sulk and think up tactics to get my mom to buy me a return flight. It's funny when you do things like buy a last minute one way flight, it seems super bold and spontaneous at the time, but when the dust clears and the party ends it just feels retarded.

Lucky for me, with my excellent Priceline skills I was able to sneak in a return flight back to San Diego with just enough cash on my person to buy the gas required to get back to Los Angeles. The problem was that flight was at 6 in the morning. It was 4pm. Now I've explored a lot of cities by myself. I travel alone sometimes when I want to relax/reflect/write. And usually I have a blast. No one wants to go exploring alone after 72 hours of perpetual partying. I know you no one likes the guy that tells you how many drinks he had and how he was "so fucked up and so hungover" but I was ya. I ate like a slice of pizza the entire weekend, I hadn't slept, I was in an unfamiliar city with dirty clothes a heavy bag and I just wanted a dark room to take a nap in. But I had a humid 90 degree park with uncomfortable benches and it looked like it was going to rain.

I had just about resigned to the fact that I was either going to sit on that park bench for the next 12 hours or I was going to have to go the airport and sleep in baggage claim (I've done it before.) I didn't know anyone that was in Austin, and the cheapest Hostel was out of my budget (rock bottom) but then I remembered this thing people used to talk about called CouchSurfing. It's exactly what it sounds like, you go stay on someone's couch...but they're a stranger. Interesting concept, as douchey as I appear in this blog and in person quite frankly most of the time, I have an uncanny ability to turn all that bullshit off and be a good dude once in a while. I generally like people and can usually find something in common with someone.

Of course I immediately doubled back to Starbucks and created a profile and started hitting up everyone in the Austin area. No success. There were some seriously cool people, well I suppose a social media account can make anyone sound cool. Dejected that no one had accepted my surfing requests I was resolved to go watch Magic Mike and then go to the airport and cry myself to sleep...then out of nowhere I received an email from a fellow surfer.

This was my original post:
Here's a fun story. I flew to Austin last minute for a birthday party in New Braunfels. We floated a river, it was amazing. However, I failed to book a return flight because I'm an idiot, this morning when I came out of my drunken stupor I realized that I needed to get back to LA somehow, flights were like severely expensive so I did the only sensible thing and booked one for tomorrow...at 6am...to San Diego...whatever I'll figure it out when I get to California. Anyway, I am at this Starbucks on 6th Street and I have nowhere to go until tomorrow morning and I'm out of money so a hotel is out of the question. 

Sure maybe that was slightly over the top. Perhaps a little intimidating for a last minute Sunday night. The person that ended of hosting me was a 25 year old girl that lived with her boyfriend and his dog. He was skeptical of the whole situation but consented. I took a bus to a fairly shady part of Austin and had a doubt or two. It wouldn't be out of the realm of possibility for some psychopath to make a fake account and use a picture of a cute girl to lure guys like me only to brutally hack them to death with a sword. Lucky for me she was awesome. Owned her own graphic design company and built gourmet cakes on the side. Myself, her and her boyfriend tossed back Shiner bocks all night while watching the typical Breaking Bad, Newsroom, Weeds line up. It turned out that my host had couchsurfed all through Europe and dated a guy that I went to South Padre with in 2007.

Overall my experience was life changing. People are good, people are interesting. Her boyfriend was nothing like me, he had video game controls tattooed to his arm and probably had a strong disdain for bros. But it doesn't matter. There is an ancient code of hospitality. The Greeks and Romans believed in it. If someone is passing through and you have the room, put them up you never know what could happen. You could meet a new friend for life, a significant other, or just have a great story to take home to your friends. My host was gracious enough to take me to the airport at 4:30 in the morning. I wouldn't take my brother to the hospital at 4:30 in the morning if he was bleeding out. And she knew me for 4 hours. There's a subculture of people who go...not necessarily people that travel, or people that always say yes. But people that just go. Sometimes it's scary not to ask questions, sometimes it pays to be a little cautious and keep your sense of adventure in check. But I say fuck it, it's about the journey, so I will sleep on a stranger's couch anywhere in the world and we'll probably have a good time. And if you're every around my neck of the woods, you needn't even ask.

Come Back to Texas

Remember when MySpace had the mini blog and you could select a mood/song combo to help get across your emotions? It would be like...

Mood: emo Song: Adam's Song Blink 182

Ugh today at school Joshua wouldn't listen to me tell him about this super deep dream I had last night. Shannon doesn't even know who I am. Why is life so terrible. No one understands me, I'm gonna like slit one wrist horizontally so I definitely look like I tried to kill myself but didn't. MORE HELLOGOODBYE.

That's what will always be my memory of MySpace, the melodramatic theatre kids being emotional. And veiled suicide threats. MySpace was the KING of veiled suicide threats, back when suicide was a thing. I know it's not funny to make fun of, and most people probably know someone who has at least "attempted" but suicide was seriously so 90's. So angsty...go see Spring Awakening, it's all about this gay guy trying to blow his load in Lea Michele and you see her tits but then everyone around him dies. Ok so that's a poor plot synopsis, but pretty much that's how it goes down.

Can you imagine if Blogger or Wordpress had that shit? Not that people actually read blogs anymore, get me a funny .gif of someone reacting. "When I'm super hungover." Cue: a clip from final destination where someone gets hit by a train. GET IT! IT'S FUNNY BECAUSE WHEN I'M HUNGOVER I FEEL LIKE I'M GETTING HIT BY A TRAIN. Whatever, people are idiots and have no attention span, it's like shining a laser pointer at a wall and making kittens chase it. But it seems unintelligent people drive social media, just check out the trending topics on twitter. #ONLYAFATBITCH LOLz.


But if Blogger did have emotions I would be fucking jacked and listening to some serious country music. Why country music you ask? Well 2 reasons. Country music, while not for me, is unbelievable party music. As soon as someone turns it on you can't help but find the nearest beer and chug it. And while it is gloomy as shit in Venice, CA today. In 24 hours I will find myself in the party capitol of the world: Austin, TX.


"What about Vegas, Ibiza, New Orleans????" 


Nope Austin.

No other major college campus integrates so seamlessly into a large metropolitan city as UT and Texas, so while 6th Street has a real Lincoln Park Chicago feel, you are a stones throw from Greek row...oh and their frats have pools, not that I'm going to visit college friends or anything but I imagine being a Longhorn would have been a lot of fun and at times a liability.

It gets better, Saturday, I'm going on a fucking float trip. I've blogged about float trips before, they are the fucking greatest. And did I add that I am going to Austin for a girl's 21st birthday party? Me surrounded by girls 4 years my junior who still care about things like how cool you were in college and how good your alcohol tolerance is? These kids will probably think I'm God.

But aside from the lakehouse 25 people have rented out in New Braunfels, the 6th street raging (at all the bars from my favorite Real World. Dizzy Rooster, check.) The float and a concert Saturday night, it really is good to get out of LA every once in a while. This place is great, don't get me wrong, but it is also soul sucking. Every day in LA I lose a little bit of my equilibrium. I lose sight of the big picture in life. When you hear enough stories about getting bj's from female PA's for a promotion, back room couch casting sessions you start to lose your sense of how the real world works. It's nice to escape once every couple of months to regain a sense of perspective.

And then when you get back you go buy some pot from a 7/11 and take a walk along the beach. That said, my perspective this weekend is going to be black. I've been to Austin 4 times and I have had the absolute time of my fucking life. I am going to consistently drink beers from 10am-5am all weekend, and ya I sound immature, and ya I should be focusing on other things. To be quite honest, blowing all my money on Texas this weekend is the most irresponsible thing I could possibly do. But sometimes you just have to say fuck it. I booked my one way flight on Priceline last night after a bottle of wine and I don't even have a plan on how to get back to LA. Do you know why? Because I'm awesome and one way or another it will work out. Winging it is for winners. I got a production assistant gig today, I'm a working member of the industry. So suck it, if anyone needs me the next 48 hours I'll be doing backflips off of canyons and teaching some southerners how to rage.

In Between Dreams

Do you ever have that dream where you are raining haymakers on someone but you can't get a good shot in? Either your punches are ineffective or you keep missing. It's the fucking worst. Following closely is the dream where you are trying to run, but your feet seem to be stuck in some sort of quicksand or some mythological force from Hyrule that is keeping you in your place. To make matters worse I often have the dream that I am trying to fuck someone up and I'm failing, I have some fictitious cinder blocks attached to my feet and then I fall off of something, and the whole way down I'm like "this is it...I'm going to die, I never even gave a chick anal...my life was a failure."

But then I wake up in a cold sweat frantically punching the air. I see that I have ripped my fitted sheet off of my mattress, assaulted all of my pillows, it's 4 in the morning and I'm unsure if I pissed myself or I am just that sweaty. I feel terrible for anyone that has ever had to share a bed with me. It's not even this new incarnations of night terrors, or dreams that feel so real to me that I can't tell the difference between fact and fiction. I snore like a baleen whale, I sleepwalk in an almost comical sense. Whereas most people stand up go piss in the closet and go back to bed, I go on epic journeys. Yes that's it...I sleep journey. My affliction has taken me to beaches, foreign countries and even prisons. (Speaking of prisons...I would like to report that Monroe County finally gave up on that warrant they had for me. They sent my mom a letter dropping all charges, basically because I persevered. Never did community service, never took the alcohol class, got away with it...because they are too busy trying to find that dead Smallwood girl to track down an LA blogger with an outstanding drinking ticket. Suck it bitches.)

Why are my dreams so fucking weird and real. Why do I wake up feeling as though I have solved all my problems (oh don't worry about losing your wallet, when you wake up everything will be ok) It's never fucking ok. Taking solace in sleep is the worst. It's like I live on Elm Street and my stress metaphysicizes (<-- invented word...I think I meant to use metabolize) itself and attacks me in my sleep.  

Anyway, I've narrowed it down to a few culprits. The first is the alcohol. I think that on any given week most nights I'm going through some sort of withdrawal and my liver is literally going through hell and back just to function. I believe my liver has formed a strategic alliance with my nervous system in which it projects its pain onto me while I sleep. It's a radical theory but the human body is a magnificent organism, stranger shit has happened. My 2nd theory is that subconsciously I want to be living in this crazed world of excitement. Every time I go to sleep it's like I'm transported into Total Recall, I live a fairly boring life Monday-Friday and maybe that's just not enough so my mind provides the necessary distraction from the monotony while my eyes are closed. I have a feeling if someone were to watch me sleep my eyes are going buck fucking wild while I'm under.

Solutions: I don't dream when I'm super fucked up. It's like my nervous system is too inebriated to trick me. Also I'm not stressed out when I'm drunk, I really don't give a fuck about anything except getting a burrito delivered to me when I'm drinking. So that's a reasonable way to fix my problem, but again, when I drink two bottles of Trader Joe's Cab alone watching Shark Tank I feel like a problem drinker.

Or maybe I should just embrace my Cloud Strife fantasies for what they are...dreams. If I'm so moved maybe it could be a story to tell some day. By the time I tell it I won't even be sure if it was real or imagined. Jesus I sound like I'm on an LSD trip...maybe I am.