Birhday Bash, by KH

Every situation requires context, but I think it’s a lot funnier to void it instead, thus, the function begins. whirlwind day with some whirlwind effort and I’m breaking necks to get the party vibe popping off ex: arrive home, chug large coffee, buy molly, and get the band back together so that when we get rolling I’ll be in the middle of an eight song set with some radical energy. Of course accompanied by the everlasting anxieties of any and everyone, “Do host good? Do the party happen? Do the neighbors hate? Do care if punch a cop tonight? Do guests get drunk too?” I fret most of all that perhaps the esteemed guests of my birthday party might instead opt to do something cooler, couldn’t blame them.

Every fear resides when my homie Blind Boy struts in with the strength of the Irish (he’s West Virginian) and pounds my hand with a bottle of bright blue Gin, a Townes cassette, and a denim jacket. I almost kissed the man on the spot I was so delighted, his actions spoke louder than the ocean to the syphilis ridden Captain Ahab and I knew he was right: We can always just drown.

However, every death heightens in the company of strangers, and so the guests poured in with their bolo ties and trinkets hanging off the cuffs and we prepared to rock ourselves into a State of Uncertainty.  Everytime I perform I black out, but the solid bits I do recollect involve a constant meowing in my throat; similar to how a doctor might invade your sound canal with their devices, but a lot more tangible.  Some other action involving me violently shaking a newborn babe as he walked in, bright eyed bushy tailed and with wholesomeness fully abandoned at the door, the final song in the set plastered my memory’s drywall with his likeness.

Next occured the real coup de gravy baby, the circumspected what the hell, the straw that broke my camel back and bade me to remove all limitations on my night’s interactions. I drank two cups of water. THERE! HEALTH! Tomorrow takes care of itself and now I’ve aided it.  So onto brew! The sweetest elixir to help every bitterly hopeful encounter with good friends and their friends with whom history remains unspoken and thus you stay in a teeter totter bondage binding molded by instability and a leash that pulls you ever closer as you embrace the void until it actually stares back.

“What is fearful is to be cast from the hands of a living God” - Pauline Reage, Story of O (1954)

“My fans need new addictions” - Jpegmafia, “Beta Male Strategies” off album All My Heroes are Cornballs (2019)   

I’m going inside and outside thoroughly carousing the crowds with a pint of poppers, engaging in bits that batter the brain (i.e. Pretty Girl like you Shouldn’t Light Their Own Cigarette to 3 people in rapid succession as I light their irons), and laughing haphazardly at almost every utterance to promote other’s confidence.  I’m caulking up gaps in conversation with my own little indentations and trying desperately to look cool as ice through the heated sweat of a molly roll.  When the gracious invitation for shots hits the mind’s eye via my friend Swell Boy who has just learned of a vodka x pickle-juice (pj) treasure trove in the lovely Julia’s room.

As if struck by a cattle prod I took my chance to exit the outside of my home and embrace alone time with the dear swell boy, but we are swiftly intercepted by a marvelous broad with a tongue of constant quixotic certitudes telling us how to live, perhaps the only philosopher of our time.  She expressed feverishly how it was my responsibility to take twenty-two picklebacks in tandem; else my new year would find itself cursed.  I of course obliged, throughout the experience banking away her statements about how if she didn’t have a boyfriend we’d have been fucking at the very moment, but we of course could always platonically makeout (this never came to fruition due to others coming in and out, but I later heard this was a frequent request of hers).  This not to mention her notch up experiment of asking me and another visitor, as we all congradulated each other on not being cursed with ugliness, to engage in a ‘friendly’ threesome.

I hit shot # eighteen and it’s all pretty hazy from then on out, mostly recollected through videos cursed to ruin/improve my future election cycles when I grow immune to fucking my own life in the ass and need to try it with others.  Immediately after the 18th shot, Swell Boy burst into the room full of vigor not unlike that of a blood-thristy gladiator, though only one of these descriptors holds true, and proffered a birthday chaos ritual involving the drinking of one another’s sanguine goop.  Not without our critics (one being the aforementioned philosopher) we set about slicing our fingers open rhymitcally and into a nicely prepped plastic bowl.  Now the best chaos ritual recipe i’d say, is 1 tablespoon of blood to every shot of vodka, and a good wish to wash it down.  The philosopher thought to truncate my digit for me by tying a tourniquet around my finger and leaving it through the night, but this eventually returned itself to normalcy with China’s help as I lay sleeping.  I did a bump of coke at this point to keep me going. 

Afterwards, the cake!

I of course was knocked out, my eyes now blood-shot, and so my dear love Rissa Rush rag dolled me face first into a solid bite of tranquilizing icing, boom, park me at the toilet.  Luckily I’m surrounded immediately by a gaggle of helpful gals, so I vomit to the beat of “Come On Up to the House” by Tom Waits in an intensely dramatic fashion (I like attention), and aided fervently through Julia’s fingers thrusting deep inside my throathole to solicit a bit more feel better tomorrow juice into a somehow crystalline blue toilet oasis, not unlike those found on Florida Keys. 

Then Blind Boy and the Pirate Queen carried me off to bed and so goodnight.