Summertime Blues;

I begin the summer on a good note, and this is a fraud, a snaking, sneaking trick. I go shopping for clothes that are far too expensive because they are far too expensive. I take a helicopter trip to Arizona for two days with a blonde hardbody whose name I have forgotten, but whose brain (both senses) I have not. The nights, mostly spent outdoors either on Mount Charleston or at pools behind mansions in Anthem Highlands, are warm as blood, and this pleases me greatly. The days, overcast yet still too bright, are spent sleeping in blackness, vague snatches of dreams that could be nightmares but it does not matter flickering behind my eyelids. It causes me to let my guard down, a brutal mistake, I realize halfway into June, covered in blood and my eyeballs aching from the cocaine I am nearly overdosing on. I hate cocaine; any other drug except for skunk-weed will sate my need to get plastered, and yet here I am. Skin too sensitive, I can feel the blood (not mine, of course) drying on my bare chest and face, I cannot feel my gums, and, most distressing of all, the drain has caused me to begin to swallow convulsively. It is not at all an enjoyable feeling; my irritation at this sensation has, no doubt, caused me to do what I have done, standing nude over something that is crimson and torn and meaty, something that I vaguely remember as being beautiful before the start of this evening. What had caused this? I debate with myself aloud in calm tones for a quarter of an hour, making verbal jousts with myself, conceding points and flexing so hard that my calf cramps, I cry out and sit on the couch and weep for my terror and pain for a few minutes, then go over to the window, gaze out over this terrible city, Ciabola, and I begin to laugh, I have always known the summertime blues owned me during the warmer months, but I have never accepted it, as winter's finest is bound to be prideful.