Wazak

Have been drinking last night until early morning. A friend of mine broke up with someone which in turn released a short chain of events too horrible to even menti--

So he broke up with her. We went at a bar and drank till 4 am. I consumed 4 bottles of Red Horse stallions and a considerable amount of that freakin' Generoso Brandy. I was fine, except for my sandals that lost a strap due to wear and tear. After I got home, I lay in our 16-year old sofa. I dozed off dreaming of persecution.

*****

Then, light. I'm awake, and it's past 8 in the morning. I sit up, asking my sister what's for breakfast and if she would like me to go buy food in the mar--

I am kicked from the inside. Or stabbed. A savate-style front kick with steel-tipped French shoes. Then I feel my tummy go wild, churning caviar inside. My mouth goes sour, and remembering that I'm post-drunk, I went to the bathroom, to the toilet, oh this garbage bin must be cleaned goddammit, and DWAAARRRRFFFFF! Throwing up, as I remember, is meant to make someone feel better. But now, its not working. I went to the kitchen, got iced water from the fridge, drink, and vomit again. Then I feel my limbs going cold. Suddenly I feel that I'm hunched over, weakened, beaten to a fucking pulp. I looked at the sofa. The sofa is my home, the sofa is the answer. If only I can...reach...the...sofa...

No one seems to take notice. Have I been shot? No. Perhaps. Yes. There wasn't any sound. But what if it was one of those techie silenced sniper rifles? No, i haven't been shot. But I am dying. Surely, at last.

I am dying, finally. I knew it, deserved it from the beginning. It's AIDS and I had it coming, with that "One Time When the Condom Broke with the Woman Who Had Been Around." But then I remember: I'm still a virgin.

I'm dying, at last. I get up and go to the bathroom and throw up again. Again. Then again. Everytime I take something, drink or eat, I throw it up. I have been puking at least more than ten times already when I feel a hot sensation in the back of my throat. Then I looked at the toilet bowl and there are drops of a black, mucous-like substance. Now I get it, I'm spitting up bile, pieces of my liver. I think of Cos Zicarelli gagging on spoiled pasta in one of their performances at Box. Maybe this is something more. A performance art! Yes, yes this! It would be beautiful and poetic and it hurts like a motherfucker. I'm not made for this. A human throat is not made to be passed through by such substances.

Fuck! This pain! Am I giving birth?! I am tough, I am ARMY TOUGH. But this is freakin' tearing me apart, acid all over my stomach, acid being kicked into my side by a thousand little French Armada fuckers, all inside my tummy. Can AIDS kill like this? Yes, yes. No, no, no.

*****

I have a resolution: NEVER TO DRINK AGAIN, I WILL HOLD IT FOR AS LONG AS I FUCKING CAN.