I’m gonna take you too the bank...to the blood bank.

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@james-asher
I’m gonna take you too the bank...to the blood bank.
The Trip, and The Thought, Thunk!
So, I’m writing a book. It’s my first. I’m a virgin author who is not sure what kind of book he is writing, but he’s sure it will tell him, when the time comes. Today, I came to the subject of subjectivity, and magic mushrooms. The quote below, I share with you, because it entertains me. Maybe it will entertain you...
On realizing that everyone is on their own trip, or reality is relative:
“The suggestion of such a notion shot through my being like an illuminating ray of comprehension. It was the kind of feeling you get when you are grasping for a certain expression that has been just on the tip of your tongue, for your entire life, but just out of reach, until you remember it, on drugs; and just like that, you've accomplished something great, and experience the ecstatic relief of having remembered something that you would find out, two years later, someone else figured out, decades before you were born.”
This is me sharing something I love.
This morning would be a lot cooler if I were sleeping through it.
Do You Believe in Voodoo, Too?
I lived on the top of a hill, where I had a clear view of downtown to the west and the airport to the east. The lights were dazzling at night. The number of cars and pedestrians moving about was a fraction of the number it was during the day, but still dense enough to keep each moment dynamic…as far as traffic patterns are concerned. I turned my first corner.
I settled into my stride and got real high (on life…), looking up at the power-lines hanging overhead. I wished I had a camera, but knew that it could never quite capture what it was I was seeing: industrial nature in high definition night colors. It was like seeing an Allen Ginsburg poem come to life. It was like my own, personal Sunflower Sutra. I turned my second corner.
This was the stretch. The convenience store was straight ahead. I could see it in the distance. One of the busiest roads in town ran along the stretch. Halfway across, the stretch turned into a bridge for about thirty yards. The bridge is situated over a brook that snaked down from the summit of the hill and ended up in a metropolitan pool of murk-water. Surely, that very water—minimally filtered, containing trace amounts of pharmaceuticals, fluoride, and the American spirit—would end up in a clean glass, under a clean faucet, with a clean conscience.
Well, I was about fifty yards from the convenience store, when I spotted—what appeared to be—a prostitute standing outside. She was leaning against the corner of the building. The store grew larger as I approached; as did my visual clarity of what was most definitely a prostitute, standing between me and my whole purpose for going out.
She wore fuck-me pumps, leopard-print tights, and a too-small halter top, neon pink. The crown of her head adorned a wig. When I say the “crown” of her head, I literally mean the “crown” of her head; which was shiny and bald. It was like she was wearing a yamaka wig. She wore that wig so far back, her forehead was more like a ten-head. Six Shaolin dots would have fit just fine on that exposed dome. She and I were within talking-distance now.
”Heyyy babyyy. Could you bring me out some change when you’re done in there?” She looked me up and down.
”Nope.” I said, “I don’t have any cash on me.”
”I’m tired and hungry.” She said, “It’s a hard life.”
I just shrugged. Ever since I moved to this city, one fifth of my human interactions have consisted of strangers asking me for money. A bell dinged as I entered the store.
I was about third in line to the cashier, moon pie and mineral water in hand. I was wearing my sweet, leather jacket. There was a secret pocket inside that jacket, over my heart. That’s where I kept my wallet.
I was at the front of the line now. The cashier was ringing-in my snack. I reached into my secret breast pocket, for my wallet, but felt something more in there. It was a condom. I produced my wallet and gave the cashier my debit card. All the while, my mind reeled. What if I gave the prostitute the condom?
…I will let that soak in for a moment…
What if I gave the prostitute the condom? She would attack me. I would try to run—and I could run fast—but, in a blind pill-rage, she would bolt at me, faster than Usain Bolt, leaving her wig flapping in the wind behind her. She would tackle me to the ground, me: face down, teeth shattered on the pavement, nose inverted into my skull. She would flip over, onto my back, and repeatedly stomp on my testicles, and then, because the adrenaline got her so worked up and hot, she would smother my face with her gigantic breasts, nearly suffocating me, and she would start kissing me telling me that it was alright.
Either that, or she would try to pick-me-up.
Neither of those options seemed appealing, so I kept my wrap under wraps.
I passed by her outside and said, “Sorry. No change.”
She said, “Don’t be sorry, baby. I know you’re alright. I’ll see you on payday.”
I looked back at her with, my famous shit-eating-grin, shook my head and said, “I doubt it.”
On the walk home, I ate my moon pie and drank my mineral water. When I got home, I farted around for a while, and then decided to go to sleep. I slept. I woke up. I did my morning ritual. I hopped into my car and headed downtown. Halfway there, I had to stop behind a Metro bus that was loading up. In line, waiting to board the bus, was the woman from last night. She didn’t see me, but, fuck, I saw her! How could I have been so bold? To think that I really would never see her again. And here she was, right in front of me, not twelve hours since our last encounter. She may have been right. I might be paranoid. Both statements are probably true. Maybe she will see me on payday. If I do see her, she won’t remember me, but I will remember her. I will give her the change she asked for.
…Do you believe in Voodoo, too?
We Are Puppets, A Bedtime Story
Like four years ago I was taking a cat-nap and I dreamt that I took acid with Jim Henson. He explained to me the wonder of puppetry and, in a way, the mystery of life... Okay, that's all you get. Go night night.
Fun For Masochists
Place six, undiluted drops of pure oregano oil on your tongue and swallow. Be sure that your lips are chapped and that you lick them upon swallowing the drops. Wait two and one half seconds, and you’ll be writhing in agony. That’s the toxins leaving your body! If the burning sensation becomes too much to handle, wash the oil down with a shot of bourbon whiskey.
Why didn't the lifeguard save the hippie? Because he was too far out, man.
A Friend
Nosferatu/Smashing Pumpkins Sync
You will need two things. 1: the means to watch the film Nosferatu. 2: the means to listen to the album Mellon Collie and The Infinite Sadness.
Here’s what you do. Play said film, but mute the sound. As the film begins, simultaneously begin said album. They sync up quite nicely.
East 6th Street. Austin, TX. Read, muthafuckas!
The Best Way To Fall Asleep
Listening to the trees whisper in the morning.
Picture This.
Some poor, stoned fool lie in his bed. He imagines a woman who is nowhere. She says to him, "Let's fuck and listen to Radiohead." It is the most romantic thing he has ever heard.
And if you are horny, then you know you are alive. So thank God for your libido, it's keeping you alive!
How The Universe Was Created.
One day, I tried to make an apple appear...in my imagination, like. Instead, a bunch of lightning bolts and triangles started to appear... I think I fucked it up.
Dude.
Deep in the Woods
Their hearts swollen with images of glory, Jake and Nyhm ventured into the Moon's territory, their stomachs aflutter. The musky dank of the mossy wood gave Nyhm's nose a tickle, and when she sneezed, it was as if the sound was stolen by the vacuum of the mist and bramble. Not a bird chirped. Not a squirrel barked. All that could be heard were the footsteps of the two on the damp and damned earth, and the general hiss of the mist, like the spirit of a snake living among the sick trees.
A lingering voice of warning echoed from the neglected annals of Nyhm's memory--those dark corridors, left neglected, not out of thoughtlessness, but fear. What if the words of that weird woman were true?...
(The George Harrison Ford Administration would like to inform you, The Reader, that the following passage is merely an excerpt...a skeleton if you will...of an idea for a gothic fantasy tale. Our not-un-impermanent minion wrote this story idea approximately one month ago. However, due to an inexplicable plight of scatter-brainedness, he has not yet elaborated upon this story. We are currently devising a creativity-production torture device (involving alcoholic beverages and a spaghetti whip) to test on our minion, in hopes that he may be beaten free of scatter-brainedness.)
For your ears: The debut, premier, numero uno internet release of any type of music written, composed and performed by The George Harrison Ford Administration Project. Please, enjoy. (Can you guess what the piece of paper is?)