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Tale of two counties September 10, 2005

Posted by Matt Hurst in Uncategorized.

I woke up today wretchedly in the midst of a vivid dream, unable to seperate concious reality from that of the dream world until the hangover set in. Cold air conditioning and hard sleep under sun paint the backdrop of such wicked pain I knew then. Stumbling forward on my way into the kitchen I braced the walls on either side of the hall. I turned to the magic beans of Columbia to offer me the alertness I so desperately needed at a time like 1 o’clock in the afternoon. The roasted beans full of caffinated joy had to be ground first to prepare the hearty beverage. The shreiking drill of turbines grinding not just into the beans but into my aural sensors left me with teeth clenching pain straight through my brian stem.
Just then, as I put the fresh grounds into the filteration of my coffee making machine, I turned to the devil bottle I knew such pleasure from the night past. A fifth of Southern Comfort had been reduced to but two shots worth of strong drink in a single short night. Good bourbon comes on slowly, but it comes on strong before you realised the damage you’ve done to yourself. The extra grenadine doesn’t help either – it makes a man-child believe he drinking liquid candy while the mind is awash in a playground somewhere in the frontal lobes. If alcohol inhibits your judgement, it also makes your judgement of alcohol to that of a pacifist. It posses you, only to clench it’s grip the following morning.
So there I was, with a sweet ether enameled dream to share and internet access. The coffee never helped. I had to get out of my paid prison cell. I drove to the bakery – I like to call it the Synonymus Bread Company. I would need ulcer inducing food to keep the stomach acid inside my body instead of escaping upward. I was sure I had a flat tire the entire way. Only the awoken drunk knows the pain of the subconcious crippled, unable to prevent the background filteration of ordinary noise from grabbing our attention. It is unbarable to such things in a bustling cafeteria, so I picked a dark corner to eat my tuna fish sandwhich like a tramp with leporacy banned from the star seating.
Naturally, in my form fitting pants and ray bans to shape my sensory environment, had to go into the worst of it to actually make something of my sudden rise from slumber. With my still wet coif, I made my way accross county roads out of the city through south county and toward the counties westward bounds. I pass old strip malls like so many lemmings heading back home from work. I would have to visit the West County mall.
Rebuilt from the ground up and opened a mere two years earlier at the behest of Fergie the dutchess of commercialism, the West County mall is the total sum of human psychology applied to architecture and five decadent decades of splurged savings and debt. Every 90 feet the mall shifts directions to disorient the shopper. The whistful entry of carts into this canopied market has been settled and entrenched using full fledged booths blocking you from ever being able to walk a steady pace to your desired place of business. Sale signs berade you with constant sales, portable phone dealers barking at you with service plans of ever hagled pricing, and a half lit corridor at an even 72 degrees year round in the atmosphere of loud music; it is unbearable, especially when one is still hungover as well. Not to mention the meaningless banter jabbered by countless Reagan era prototypical optimists empty of any self-reflection outside of body image.
My IPod was broken, could I have it serviced mister condesending techie guy? “Let’s see if we can’t just fix the hardware problem by replacing the software…oh…nevermind…come back at, say, 6:50?” Two hours in this wretched pig sloth vs three months without my music on a drive about town – I will have to wait this one out.
I can’t cost justify visiting a nearby friend because of petrol pricing near $50 a full tank, yet I stumble into a department store to the suspicion of many shopkeeps as I walk back and forth beyond their stores. I am still considering buying a new suit to match my swelling fever of madness while calling whoever I can think of to pass the time; I have not considered this misdirected contradiction of cost considerations quite yet. NO ONE CAN OFFER AN ACTIVITY OF LEISURE, leaving me to explore mindless consumption not unlike the thoughlessness last night. That’s it Elliot, prevent hangovers by continuing to drink yourself in. Alcoholics go to meetings, and shopping addicts are the ones in debtors prison at King George’s behest. I snap once I realise no one can give me some sort of scavenger hunt to pass the time. My mother is advising me to stay put for a little while before I go stark mad in public for my own sake, and I am inclined to agree.
Nothing defies selfish impulse like self-control – I will shake off the hangover and satisfy my frontal lobes by consulting the good Dr. Thomson. They don’t have many seats to rest on in this busy marketplace, but I find one. Me and an old man trade jokes about the dizzyness of shopping malls. Hell, he just needed a new pair of shoes, and I selfishly wanted a new toyPod.
Mother reaches me just in time. We discuss plans for the compound she is building for herself – it will be a palace but not a remote retreat. Everything necessary for sustanance must be built on the ground floor unlike this wretched business center. Finally, 6:50 and a stomach full of carmelised almonds. We depart with kind thoughts of suprise parties.
The head nerd diagnoses my iPod as broken, grabs me an unlabled iPod from the back, and compliments me on my patience. I will have to set up another iPod full of music once again, but AT NO EXPENSE ON MY PART. We even have the same cell phone. It will never cease to amaze my the cordiality maintained in this funhouse. If he can maintain sanity in a mall, imagine what I can do in the real world if I apply myself…



1. itallgoestohell - September 10, 2005

you’ve succeeded in giving me a headache just by reading about being at that mall. congratulations in making it out alive with a hangover.

2. skewgee - September 11, 2005

Thank you very much. Remember, if this post means anything…..
What? I don’t know. Does that mean I can make a career out of inconsiquentual thoughts, intersperced with subtle messages.
Maybe in your laizes faire world, where al gore is still president. i am a betting man.

thanks for reading.

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