Written by Skizza
This is the cold marble-tile of your 5 Star hotel suite’s bathroom floor pressed against your back as you slowly choke to death on your own champagne-flavored vomit. How did you get here? Like most great stories I’d be willing to bet this one started with a stripper. She looks just enough like “her” to remind you how much you love “her” and just different enough that you can almost forget how much “she” actually hates your guts. It couldn’t have been more than 4 hours ago she flipped down the passenger seat sun visor in whichever the fuck car it was you were driving that night, Instagramming herself in the rear-view mirror as you swung through traffic – first fast, and then slow, and then sideways, or maybe all three at once. The sum total of all the substances in your stomach and your blood and your brain filtering the sound of your speakers into something metallic and alien; an electric starship motor humming and whirring, the occasional clang of clarity striking out with beautiful, discordant, ecstatic pain leaving bite marks on your earlobes.