And then I ate intestines with Teen Wolf

Well folks? It's official.

Careful observation (as well as eager participation) has led me to develop the following equation:

Open flames + marinated intestines +3 (or 4?) *whisky highballs (somewhere between hours 23 and 28 of no sleep) = something resembling the initial, most intense portion of... say, past mescaline trips.  

In other words, I deeply pity insomniacs--- and completely understand how sleep deprivation could potentially lead one to shave their head, climb the nearest skyscraper, and either jump-- or for those of us in (and/or near) the beloved 'service industry', grab a sniper rifle on the way up, and take a few shitty tippers down, pre-leap. 

Luckily for me, last night I saw no skyscrapers. Thus, I channeled all residual travel anxiety into just how one lays pork over a mini grill (to optimize caramelized deliciousness), and molded any other overwhelming fatigue-like symptoms into conversation topics such as: old women nipples, the Minnesota Twins, and of course, how to order another highball in Japanese. Wild.

Back to the mescaline. Once consuming (quite literally), a vile of this shit, one gradually adheres to the sensation of... well... very slowly slipping off a cliff. I remember sinking into a couch, chewing my fingers as the couch gradually became a boat, and perhaps sucking my thumb (as at this point, things were really getting odd) as we (me and my boat, of course) bobbed about---through a sea of mannequin-like limbs. Mind you, this ocean of bodies was pre-dropping Miles Davis in the Grand Canyon, and pre-I've-lost-any-notion-of-time-but-what-is-time-anyways.... yet once in the rabbit hole, you can kind of get your bearings... it's always that first nosedive downward that incites hand-chewing.

Not unlike last night, where somewhere between 'jetlagged' and 'wasted' I found myself sweating under neon lights, blubbering on about why Kirbey Puckett was such a vital center fielder (red flag here folks: my disinterest/hatred of sports usually outweighs any actual knowledge of it). Think I'm being overly-dramatic? Well, duh. But still cynics, observe the image below if you will. Eat your heart out Hunter S. Thompson.

The answer is Yes. Yes both those t-shirts reference Minnesota. Yes, they may make out. Yes, that smoke wafts from our barely-manageable, mid-table grill. AND Yes. Those are tit-glasses. Perky pink nipples atop perky pink plastic mounds. 

Most importantly? Yes, there will be more where this came from.