How the snow clouds puke white stuff? Winter translates into mistaken identifies.
My mind was made up and I dreamed up another story.
"See, I was stuck in a frosted land, hip with disembodiments and rancid heartworms. Carelessly I let slip that I was hoping to hop outta town before the sun came up. Without forewarning, the sun came up and I was two hours late for my train trip outta town.
A former poker star knocked on my door and asked if I was ready to be late?
"Wait, I'm naked," I screamed even though he had no chance of intruding since I was the only one with a key to the room.
"You seem to be late, sir." I thought he was bluffing. I checked my Timex, and sure enough, I'd lost all my chips. The train ticket had squeezed me out of 23 pesos, or whatever is equivalent to a little bit of money that I so desperately needed. Without this ride out, I'd be stuck in this foreign land full of foreign customs.
"Rain or shine, I'll find a way there," I said from behind the door, still delicately nude.
"You seem to be screwed." No doubt his bets were off on me leaving by 3:00, but I was willing and able to secure a flight out of town by 3:35, barring no delays.
Bad news bear scout, the plane was delayed, according to The Weather Channel. A calming incision was the last thing I needed, but I pulled out the scalpel and started to sort the bud out of the plastic sack.
I was out.
No bud to be sorted but why not play with imaginary recreational material, right? Wrong. The gambler kept banging on the door as I stared at myself in the mirror. Why clothes no matter? Because you are alone in a room with nobody to care. Except for a fairly large fellow beating the metal out of your wooden hotel room door.
"WHAT IS YOUR PROBLEM?," I screamed.
The beatings stopped but the pain didn't. Kiss this vacation good-bye. I was stuck. Stuck real good. Stuck in the Jersey(ruslem) Shore without a clue as to what I should do. No planes, no trains, no autoerotic asphyxiation. Just kidding, who does that, David?
The barbed-wire wallpaper was bit much but so was the room service. 23 pesos for a diet pill and even more for a ceiling fan. My room stank. Real bad. Really badly did I want to dive out off of my balcony and onto a flattened earth, made possible by the good people at BassAkwards Inc. But I had no such thing. First floor occupant. No big deal, I didn't mind being stuck, for we live in perpetual tremors. The earth rattling beneath our 34-year-old bodies as we sort out the fake from the transverse and the paranoia sits in when you respond to 34-day-old text messages from parents whom have certainly forgotten about your experimentations abroad. Feeling sick or sticky? Something tells me both are knocking on the door. Not gum tissue or wet smooches crowding your dense mind. Those are distant memories. Over matter. Stuck to the non-existent ceiling fan.
Stuck in my room with bad tv and good imaginary material. Such is a life choking you half to death."
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