Pretty Pink, Baby Blue

i. I've got a 9mm bullet casing hiding between the blue and pink layers of my reversible BoxFresh jacket. Funny, as I have no idea how it got there. I don't own a gun (n.b. - given my professed derangement and past outbursts of warrantless and excessive violence, probably for the best), so that's out.

Most likely, I found it somewhere and was carrying it around, fully in the throes of TOUGH GUY Mode. And it's highly possible that someone in "The Circle" advised me to put it in of the "Keep New York City Clean" trash cans on some Brooklyn corner, so as not to draw unnecessary police attention. Holding, you see. Funnier still is the fact that, short of cutting the jacket open, which I'm not fucking doing, there seems to be no way to get it out.



ii. By around 4pm this day, I should've been fully prepared to hang myself. To think that my drug counselor (and former addict) uncle visited the family home, well mashed, driving around my young cousin and her friends, advising me to stay away from the "drug scene". Farbeit for me to stop a drunken sermon. Let him run. He'll wear himself out, with lots of talk of how the mental illness/savage drug problems that plagued him and my grandfather "skipped" me. Assuring nods, yeah. Guess that's my M.O. Case ya didn't know. To paraphrase, The Spark In His Eye Belies The Apocalypse Inside Him (thank you TVOTR). And don't you fucken forget it.

But hey. I did gain some insight through all the Newport haze and Jack Daniels belches. A sober-eye view of what cats look like when totally mashed. Not enough to shut the lights out when I get back to Brooklyn though. The Fatal Flaw. Drag the Waters.


Epilogue... Bullet troubles aside, it occurs to me now that the aforementioned uncle in Article ii. was the same uncle who gave me my first beer. At age three. And apparently, getting toddlers wasted has been his M.O. for quite some time. The More You Know...