Venting My life

[missedmybus]

I will post stories here.
Life is beautiful when you're drunk


People ask you for directions. A smoke or just a little change


Instantly you're best friends


Lifelong friendship, or just for a moment


When you're drunk, the NOW is everything


No hooks in your head
No doubts
No expectations


Sober is a different beast.
Everything counts. Everything's serious.
It's the present, the past, and every possible future all at once.

---

Every problem is a problem
and you don't have the guts
to do anything about it


Drunk or wired or fucked —
No problem.
You'll swing at it.
And if not, you'll break it open or kick it down.


Why live sober?
I ask myself that
in every sober moment.


To build something?
To contribute to society?
To help fund genocide in the name of faith?
To justify slavery and exploitation
in the name of "Western values and freedoms"?
I spit in the face of this society.

---

So what will I do
with my free time
when I'm sober?


Send bombs
to CEOs and politicians?


3D-print pistols?


What counts as meaningful
leisure time
for someone like me?


With this disgust
for the world we live in?


I'll figure it out.
And if I don't,
THEY can go fish.


This is about 6 years ago:

APPLE DRINK
(or: How Not to Do PCP on Christmas Eve)

It was Christmas Eve.
My little Christmas present to myself had arrived the day before.
I had all these new things to try, and I wasn't going to waste time being careful.

I looked up the dosage.
The website had cheesy warnings: Flashing ambulance lights, giant red letters:
WARNING: PSYCHOSIS. MANIA. HOSPITAL.
I scrolled past all that.
I just wanted to know how much to take to feel good.
It looked like the same amount as ketamine. I had done ketamine. I knew the deal.

I eyeballed a dose and snorted it.
It crawled from my nasal cavity straight down my spine.
It was going to be a good day.

I had read that high doses could lead to K-hole-like experiences.
That sounded fine.
I kept eyeballing more bumps every ten or fifteen minutes while I put on music.
Something ambient. Something soothing.

I laid down in bed, and it felt like I was being sucked into a giant funnel.
Round and round, spinning downward.
The music set the pace, slow, syrupy, gravitational.
I saw huge monolithic structures covered in moss and vines, floating in some endless black space.
I drifted between them like a ghost in a post-apocalyptic jungle.
It felt like a movie.

At some point, maybe the twelfth time the album repeated, I realized something was wrong.
The effects were only supposed to last six hours.
I'd been like this for double that. Maybe more.

I grabbed my phone and reopened the website.
The red text exploded out of the screen.
WARNING: PSYCHOSIS. MANIA. AMBULANCE. HOSPITAL.
The flashing GIFs of sirens and ambulance lights stung my eyes.

I had taken at least ten times the high-end dose.

"Oh fuck," I said out loud.
"Oh fuck fuck fuck."

The panic slammed through me like a lightning bolt.
My heart was a jackhammer.
I started pacing the apartment, manic energy rising like floodwater.

I looked for alcohol, nothing. Not even a beer.

"My little stash!"
I ran to the drawer and dumped the contents onto the table.

Neon-coloured pills and powders scattered everywhere.
Ten different shapes. Ten different possibilities.
Some of them shimmered. Some looked like candy.
I had no idea what was what.

Fuck!
Which ones are benzos?
Which ones are psychedelics?
Which ones will knock me out?
Which ones will shatter me?

I tried calling people. Everyone was busy with family dinners and Christmas parties.
No answer.
Voicemail.
Radio silence.

Then finally, one of my classmates picked up.
He was chill, a bit weird himself.
I begged him to come over.
Told him he could take anything he wanted from the stash, just help me sort it out.
"Also," I added, "bring some apple drink."

He said okay.

About an hour later, he arrived.
I opened the door, pupils like dinner plates, probably sweating like a junkyard dog.
He handed me a plastic bottle.

I stared at it.

"Wait… what the fuck is this?"

"Apple juice," he said.

I blinked. "I meant cider. Like… alcohol. Something to take the edge off."

He looked at me, deadpan.
"You said apple drink. What did you expect?"

I had to laugh.
Even in the middle of a chemical meltdown, I had to laugh.
The stupidity was too perfect.
We sat down. He helped me identify the benzos.
I took one. Then another.
He picked out something mild for himself and we spent the next few hours playing video games, watching TV, and talking about nothing.

I was still dissociated, still far from baseline, but the edge had dulled.
By 3 AM, I felt something like calm return.


---

The next morning.

I open the curtains.

The streets outside are vertical.
Like they're leading straight up into the sky.
The gaps between the pavement tiles and the bricks on the walls glow neon green and blue.
I blink.
They keep flashing.

I have to catch a train to my hometown. Family Christmas.

I shuffle to the station, eyes low, limbs uncooperative.
Everything looks wrong. Everything hums.

On the train, I take another benzo.

By the time I get there, I'm quiet. Smiling, nodding, pretending to be hungover.

No one suspects a thing.

Black Panther - Draft 1
It had been a year since my break-up. Valentine's was coming up. I'd love to say I didn't care, but I was feeling lonely, depressed and worried about relapsing.

I arrived at the venue unfashionably early. Desperately trying to not look desperate, I was walking from vague acquaintance to smoking area to vague acquaintance. Trying to look like I was walking with purpose.

I wasn't some lonely loser just killing time, I was mingling. No, networking even. Working an office job had really given the bullshit I tell myself an air of professionalism.

While these small existential crises are happening, I keep making eye contact with a pretty goth girl. At one point my nervous tic kicks in and I accidentally wink at her. Not wanting to look like a creep, I walk over and say hi.

"I like your make-up!"

Nice save, asshole.

She gives me a big smile and excitedly says thank you. I guess somehow that worked.

I ask her if she's been to the venue before. It's the first time I've seen her around, and I think I would've remembered her.

She's from a different town, and it's her first time going out in the city. As we chit-chat a bit, I notice she keeps making too much eye contact. She's wearing all fishnets, leopard-print and shiny shiny leather, yet comes across a bit young and immature.

Are you a fashion student or something? I ask while pointing out her outfit. Again that big smile.

No. High school.

I shrink away visibly. Nausea hits me.

"But I'm nineteen! I'm doing exam commission!"

I feel a bit less disquieted with myself. But still quickly say my goodbyes and go to smoke a cigarette with some people that I know.

In the corner of my eye, I see her looking at me. This makes me anxious. On the one hand it would be pretty disgusting. On the other hand it's also very tempting.

I push the depravity out of my mind, but my body stays wound up. The bands are starting now, so I get to the front. Hopefully bouncing around to some fast and loud music will tire me out.

As soon as I look to my side, she's right there. Of course.

She keeps dancing and bumping into me, trying to grab my hands and arms.

After thirty minutes of this, I give up. The last few weeks I've been feeling lonely, sad and frustrated.

I need a win.

I grab her wrists and turn her towards me. Maybe a bit too forceful, but she smiles and bites her lip. As she tries to hug me, I lift her up and start spinning around while bouncing to the music. She tightly wraps her legs around me. Our eyes meet and she looks like she's in love. Big smile. Big eyes. Laughing. Her lips keep brushing my neck.

After the bands finish, I am thrown back into the grim reality of the situation.

People are drunk now. She's drunk as well. Immediately my protective side kicks in. I had my small win, and now it's time to redeem myself.

She doesn't remember the way back to the station. I offer to take her there. She asks to come back to my place.

Too young. Too drunk.

I tell her I have to get up early the next morning. That I feel I would be taking advantage of the situation.

She says she understands.

Walking back to the station, she tells me that she writes poetry. That she's been in a psych ward. That she enjoys drugs with names that sound like math equations.

She reminds me of a younger, wilder me.

I'm sober now, but I tell her that I understand. I try to give her advice. Try to give her a less bleak perspective on life.

She says she understands.

When we get to the station, I tell her I'm very attracted to her — both looks and personality — but that she is too young.

Again those big eyes. That big smile.

We exchange numbers, and she kisses me goodbye. My heart skips a beat.

Walking home alone, in the rain, I feel dejected. Every off-licence that sells beer calls my name as I walk by.

Tonight I will not sleep well.

Then, a message from her. A song about
forbidden love, and a poem she wrote.

I can't sleep — yet I'm dreaming.
I am drunk now for the first time in years so this thread might go off the rails. I have about 80s stories like this. Somehow they all get added to the original post.

 

[missedmybus]

Focus (draft 1)
I wake up on a bus going into the city.
Panic shoots through my bones. There is no memory of how I got here, same way as usual I suppose. This isn't anything new. My eyes feel glued shut, my mouth tastes like an ashtray.
I recollect myself. As the panic subsides, I blindly fish some pills out of my pocket. Without a thought, I throw them down my throat. I almost choke, and end up chewing them into a fine paste.
I have a lukewarm beer in my other pocket, but am too anxious to open it on the crowded bus. I catch my reflection in the window and see a ghost looking back at me.
Looking good.
We pass by an off-license and I get off. In one swift movement, I open the beer and throw it back. A melange of warm beer, chewed up pills and last night's regrets runs down my throat. I walk into the little shop and get six more beers and a pack of cigarettes.
The foreigner behind the counter gives me hassle about paying by card. I growl something incoherent about the law and throw a handful of coins at him.
"Asshole!" he yells.
Great minds think alike, I laugh to myself as I exit the shop.
Outside, I down two beers as I start to wonder where I was headed. At the bus stop, I see some posh-looking bimbo waiting for the same bus.
Time to turn up the charm.
I stumble over and she shoots me a look of pure disgust. No trouble. I'm sure I can win her over.
"Uh… Where… Ugh, never mind."
I walk off. Stupid ditz. People like that never understand anything anyway.
I drift down the street, my mind feels like a pinball machine, the city is somewhere far off in the background.
Three beers and five minutes later, I am talking to a homeless guy named Franky. Or rather, Franky is talking to me. He tells me about God and the government. I pretend I understand. He says the Lord gives His biggest battles to His favourite soldiers.
I believe him. I feel like I'm on a mission. The Lord works in mysterious ways, I think, as I hand him my last beer and a handful of pills.
Feeling revitalized by the pep talk, I suddenly remember I was going somewhere. I need to focus.
I am completely out of it. And lost.
A quick bump of speed jolts me, and I realise I'm at the bus terminal. I finally check my phone. A bunch of gibberish and a dozen missed phone calls.
I call the first number and get yelled at by a woman's voice. I immediately hang up and call the next number.
My friend answers. The Butcher. The man with too much empathy. He sounds both annoyed and amused at the same time. Apparently, he'd been expecting me for the last four hours. I tell him about the bus. He tells me the bus ride takes twenty minutes. Angrily, I say something about bus troubles. He says to just come over.
When I arrive there are a lot of people I don't know, and the ones I do know I don't like. The Butcher's girlfriend immediately gives me the stink-eye. I ignore her and give my friend a hug.
He laughs. "How did that happen?!" He points at my face. I touch my face and it stings. "Oh, you know… I don't know actually." My friend and some random girl take me to the bathroom. Instinctively, I get out my baggy.
"No no no...."
I catch a glimpse of my face. There's dried blood and my eye is black and swollen. I wash my face, and the girl disinfects my brow.
I introduce myself, but she angrily cuts me off. She says I spent a few nights at her place last week. Apparently, I hung up on her an hour ago. Her voice clicks. I recognize the hysterical screeching from the phone call earlier.
Meanwhile, my friend is in tears with laughter. I apologise, a bit too loud. A hush comes over the place and I can't help but laugh. Quickly, I get them out of the bathroom. I rail a fat one and lightning shoots through my nerves and bones. I feel like a reptile. My blood is like ice in my veins.
Focus.
I kick open the door, yell for a beer and howl like a wolf. My friend looks excited and happily obliges.
"Back from the dead!" he yells.
Like motherfucking Lazarus, I think to myself.
I turn off the garbage music that's playing and put on some good old-time rock and roll. The Butcher laughs, loving every moment of it. A few potheads mumble protests from the couch, but nobody really pushes back. The room is heavy with smoke and noise. The air feels dense, like wet cloth.
The Butcher hands me a six-pack. I crack open two beers and down them both, one after the other.
I yell something about having to endure their awful music all night. Some skinny dude with an unlit joint snickers and mutters something about me only being here for fifteen minutes.
"Earlier I was getting yelled at for taking too long, now I'm here too short. Make up your mind, you evil hippie."
The Butcher bursts into laughter again. I take another swig.
I turn to the girl, the one from the bathroom earlier, and ask if she wants to dance. She hesitates, then shrugs. "Sure."
As I spin her around, I catch a glimpse of the small Buddhist tattoo on her shoulder. Flashes of last week shoot through my brain. She's my muse. I remember now. I tell her I really enjoyed her short stories.
That I might have forgotten her face, but never her soul.
She smiles. She kisses me.
Back from the dea
d. And back in control, I think to myself.

 

[missedmybus]

This one is a bit more explicit. I was in a relationship for 5 years with this person and this was all pre consented and stuff. Because without the context it can come across a bit... Over the top. She was also half Peruvian half Japanese, That's the reason for the symbolism.

Temple and Beast

My studio was quiet, except for the buzzing of the fridge. I lay on the bed, cigarette between my fingers, staring at the ceiling. I'd be asleep by now. But she kept me awake. As always.

Our love was new and intense.
BB had something indescribable, a combination of Japanese submissiveness and South American passion.
She was small, with long, black hair. Sometimes she wore braids, like an echo of a tradition that lived in her blood. She gave a slight bow when she entered, her head tilted as if to apologize for making me wait.

My frustration melted the moment I saw her.
She was shy, her eyes low, her hands gently folded. But beneath the surface lurked something else. A heat, a fire only I was allowed to see.
I walked up to her, lifted her chin with two fingers, and made her look at me.

"I want to worship you, as a goddess. Your body, my temple."

Her lips parted slightly, but no sound came. Just a small, uncertain sigh. Her lashes trembled. And then, slowly, a nod.

I kissed her forehead. My mouth slid down along her brow, her nose, her cheeks.
Each kiss was a prayer. A silent worship.
My hands found her waist, her body warm beneath the fabric of her blouse. I pulled her against me, felt her breath in my neck. Her small hands rested against my chest, hesitant, waiting for permission she didn't need to ask.

"Qué rico," she whispered.

My lips moved lower, over her collarbone, her breasts, her belly. I kissed the insides of her wrists, her fingers, her thighs, until I reached her feet.
I held her ankle, my tongue sliding over the curve, licking along her toes, my lips sucking on her skin.

She froze.

My lips wrapped around her toes, my tongue slid between them, devoted. I sucked gently, as if I wanted to draw the sins out of her, to purify her from everything she carried inside. Her breath faltered, her fingers clutched the sheets, her body caught between shame and surrender.

I felt her trembling under my mouth, her breath stuck in her throat. The sins she never told me, the guilt burning in her chest, I sucked them out of her like a confessor absolving a believer. Every trace of shame, every bottled-up secret, every unspoken fear poured out of her and dissolved into the heat of my tongue.
Her fingers gripped the sheets, her body trapped between the bliss of forgiveness and the sinfulness of desire.

I felt the shame in her. The tension. Her Japanese upbringing fought her South American passion. Her breath hitched. She tried to resist her own body.
But I held her. I wouldn't let her escape.
My tongue continued, warm and devoted, as if I wanted to cleanse her.

"Dios mío," she sighed.

I pulled her up, my hands under her thighs, her body against mine.
I kissed her deeply. Our breath merged.
She was completely mine now. A temple, ready to be desecrated.

I turned her around and pushed her onto her knees.
Her braids fell down along her shoulders, her hands rested on her thighs.
She was a priestess in her own temple, waiting for salvation.

I gripped her hair like handles and tilted her head back slightly.
Her lips opened on their own.

"Look at me."

She hesitated. But I held her. Forced her to look up.

"I've never done this before," she whispered.

I let my thumb glide over her lips and felt her shiver. She was a fast learner.
Her tongue found its rhythm, her breathing shaky but steadying.
Slowly, almost experimentally, her tongue glided further, licking over my sack while she took me deeper and deeper. Her throat relaxed, her mouth became a tunnel of warmth and surrender. She was slipping into it, her body reacting instinctively, her shame starting to fade.

But just when she began to feel comfortable, just when she began to lose herself in the moment, I suddenly pulled her up by her braids, lifted her head so our eyes met.

"Are you completely mine? I will ravage you."

Her lips trembled. Her skin glowed. Her legs were weak beneath her.

"Sí, papacito… sí."

I pushed her onto the bed, her body small beneath me.
I slid into her slowly, felt how she closed around me, how her body shaped itself to mine.

"Qué rico," she moaned, her voice a whisper of holy unveiling.

I held her, felt her tense beneath me, heard her voice break into an uncontrollable rhythm. Her legs wrapped around me, her hands ran down my back, her nails digging into my skin.

I sped up.

"Take it."

Her body clenched, her muscles trembled under my grip.
Her eyes rolled back, her breath stuttered.

"TAKE IT!"

"I need a break," she whispered.

I grinned.

"I will break you."

I pulled her close, felt her thighs tremble, her chest rise and fall in a shuddering rhythm.
She slipped off the bed, her legs too weak to hold her.

I lifted her up, held her by the hair, forced her lips to open again.

I threw her back onto the bed, her belly against the mattress, her face in the pillow.
My hands spread her thighs.

"¡Sí, sí, duro, duro!"

It felt like we were two rivers crashing into each other, merging into a swirling, untamable stream.
The Amazon flexing its power, water surging and churning, tolerating no resistance.
Our bodies drifted with the current, not fighting, but surrendering to the inevitable force of the moment.

I felt her body completely open, her voice raw and broken by ecstasy.
She began to scream, her body quivering under the power of the moment.
Her nails clawed into the sheets, her back arched in desperate surrender.
I pushed her head deeper into the pillow, muffling her cries, felt her give herself to me completely, lost in the storm that flooded her.

And then it happened.

"I want to ride you."

She climbed on top of me, pressing her full weight down, her hands gripping the headboard.
My breath caught.
She moved slowly. Gliding. Rolling.
Her hips set the rhythm.

And suddenly, I knew.

She was a kamikaze pilot, her body a weapon of flesh and surrender.
She steered herself downward, her movements more intense, her breathing short and urgent.
I saw her in my mind, diving out of the sky, her braids fluttering like ribbons on the wings of her plane.
A mission of destruction, but also of redemption.
She rode me like her life depended on it, as if there were no tomorrow, as if this was the only moment that had ever existed.

I felt it rising, the wave of energy, the tension I had never been able to release before.

Images flashed through my mind.
White heat.
Bodies vaporized into shadows.
The air scorched by an all-consuming flame.
Hiroshima. Nagasaki.
The explosion she felt in her jungle, an echo of that destruction.
An unstoppable force that pierced through my spine and exploded into her, deep, until nothing was left of me.
It happened.

"Ahhh papacitooooo!"

My head fell back, my muscles tensed, my breath caught.
It felt like my heart would tear out of my chest, like an overwhelming force burst inside me that I had never been able to release.
My entire being was on fire, an eruption that consumed me from the inside out, a climax that washed over me like a storm without mercy.

I felt her take all of me, every last drop, until I had nothing left.

She stayed on top of me, her breathing heavy, her skin wet with us.

She looked at me.
She knew what had just happened.
She knew she was the only one who had ever done this.

She felt me inside her.

Her eyes flickered, and slowly, the shame returned.
The submissiveness returned.
Her Japanese side.

But I pulled her toward me.
I kissed her deeply.

I rolled us over.

And I began again.