Out To Get Me!

The Gonzo Journals

January 28th, 2023

The night began like any other as of late. I popped a little something to help me relax and, for the most part, it worked as it should’ve. I lowered the lights and stepped up to one of my retro arcade cabinets for a Friday night full of fun and nostalgia. Then, my discombobulated logic kicked in.

It had been a while and my key to ultimate relaxation hadn’t quite kicked into its full potential. The next logical step, at least to someone who idolizes the Great Gonzo himself, would be to double down. Buy the ticket, take the ride, so to speak. So, I did.

Within a few moments, the ominous music of the videogame pouring through the face level JVC sound system warped around the perimeter of my face. The many creatures on the screen sought me out hungrily in a never-ending maze of torture. I shot back for all it was worth, but it was never enough. The deaths began to pile up.

When I could take no more, I retired to the safe, comfortable confines of my own sofa for some well-deserved, mindless YouTube browsing. I melted into the fabric like a discarded chocolate bar atop a father’s truck bench during an unforgiving Texas summer. Don’t ask me how I know that.

For hours, the mental treats worked their magic, bridging pathways long forgotten and, maybe, portions of my mind yet to be explored. Somewhere along those lines, those psychological adventurers lead me to live streams of railroad routes. I remained mesmerized by the oncoming tracks across foreign landscapes until midnight’s birth.

Soon, sleep called, and my lonesome skin welcomed the soft caress of my swallowing mattress. Sheets constricted my body as though I were to become inescapable prey to a famished, imaginary predator. I dreamed on into the youthful hours of the morning.

Then, my goddamn cat jumped on top of me, causing static shock against my nose. I leapt out of my chemically induced sound sleep from the tiny jolt of electricity, only to trigger a debilitating cramp in my right calf. Every ounce of previously obtained joy exited my body. When the pain subsided, I crumpled in defeat upon familiar pillows. It’s not easy having a good time.

I awoke to the sound of my seven-year old’s sweet voice, instructing me that the same fucking cat had vomited on his iPad keyboard, and it was much too disgusting for him to touch. Life would have it no other way…

Disappointed by what you just read? Hoped it was going to lead you down a rabbit hole of answers formerly unknown by your prying mind? Sounds personal.

I could’ve simply said I got fucked up last night, played some games, watched some videos, and passed out, but what’s the fun in that? A writer writes. Buy the ticket, take the ride, tell the tale.

Next question: Did this really happen or is this exposition for my next writing project? Ah, the back door clause for many an investigative, spying eye. Mister Owl, how many licks does it take to get to the center of a Tootsie Roll Tootsie Pop? The world may never know.

Never trust a writer. We lie for a living.

Also, back off. I’m a fucking adult.


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