All It Takes Is An End Date...

I've been growling, literally, ceaselessly lately.  Like, the verb, the action - at people on the street, dogs I'm passing, anything that can fucking breathe and see and feel my hostility and hatred because that's what I've fucking got.  I'm done.

It's been some kind of month for camp Durban.  I recently came to a conclusion that I want to be checked out by the time I'm 35.  And ever since I've come to that conclusion, things have been simple - and my life...simply simplified.

Oh, Jenny...  

Truth, I haven't been drinking.  Truth, I've been clean of everything lately, really, completely. And two weeks ago, I was on a flight from London to Tokyo because I'd never been, something in me thinking I had to see the lights and people of a country only defined by the perceptions in my mind.  Like there was a craving inside of me - a void that the trip was supposed to fill. That's what I was doing on the plane.  Since I've been sober, she's been on my mind, constantly. And it's been hurting, really fucking hurting and I know how easy it is to chase it away, I know ways, believe me, I know ways.  But I've been sitting in it, feeling it, trying to work my way through it and the badness and I'm not going to say that anything I was doing was working, but I was in it and for the time being, that was good enough.

I was sleeping in super first class and was having this dream about her where realities reversed. She was still alive and existing in the world and the pictures of her death, of her blood spilled out on that white tile floor, and her pale, naked body and her cut wrists that I demanded to see because it's "what I was owed," because she was "mine and mine alone," was the dream.  And maybe for the first time in my life, I felt truly happy - like I was going to get a second chance at it, this beautiful it, this beautiful girl that I had loved...

My eyes opened and truth rushed through and took hold of me.  And it wasn't until that moment that I realized...I had loved her, absolutely.  And now she was dead, and she cut her wrists not because of me...but maybe - and I was there close to the end, and I left, and then she did that to herself and she died.

I was awake but something was way fucking wrong...

I remember needing to stand, so I did.  I remember needing to scream, so I did.  I remember no longer being able to be on that plane, or seated, or still or silent.  I remember the panic and fear in the other passenger's eyes.  I remember no control and then a bump on my head and heat running down my forehead and off the bridge of my nose.  Then I was on the ground, hands pinned behind my back and felt this cool, slow burn running through my veins.  And the last thing I remember was the expression of this stout little Asian man in glasses.  He pitied me.  I wanted to die.  I felt like he knew. 

I woke up in jail, in Arakawa, had 14 stitches in my forehead and was released after the airline decided to not press charges.  Apparently, one of their male stewards struck me in the head with an undisclosed blunt object and both parties agreed to part as amicably as possible.  I was having a psychotic episode, yeah, but the attack was poor protocol on his part.  The airline, which I can not mention, (but you can certainly narrow it down not only by carriers who offer that itinerary but also by the distinct few carriers who could satisfy my shameful Champagne tastes) has done a decent job keeping the incident under wraps, but sometimes if you Google, "Man Goes Berserk On Airplane From London to Tokyo," a story pops up.  It was on YouTube for a day, for real.  And it was fucking amazing.  Keep it in caps, oddly, you'll have better luck. 

That was two weeks ago.  

People sometimes tell me I live an eventful life.  And in the past, maybe that would have made everything worth while.  Probably.  I don't know what I feel. I'm just coasting, have been coasting for some time...and I can't stand it anymore.

Last week, after spending an entire week at the 4 Seasons in Tokyo, laying in bed watching American TV and crushing room service, I jumped a flight to Amalfi.  It would be the first time I'd been back since everything went down.  People told me about a small service that I didn't attend.  Honestly, how could I have?  And without me there, they let her ashes go into the Mediterranean.  

I went back to the spot where we first became, thought back to the words she pulled out of me, that she was like nothing I'd ever known - and standing there, thinking back, I realized what I had meant.  

The wind picked up and started to rush around me.  I closed my eyes and imagined her ashes still floating.  I imagined that maybe, maybe there was still part of her swirling in that wind, part of her that had all along been waiting for my return.  I imagined her ash finding me and soaking through my skin and flowing through me and finding my heart and calming it and quieting it and telling it that everything was going to be alright.  And forgiving.  And for a second, it settled me, being there, paying tears to that coast that we owned, together, forever.

I looked over the edge of the cliff and thought about it, how easy it would be, to take that step. And it'd be something short of honesty to say that I don't dream of a day where that would be my reality, to really, truly toe the edge of that thing called clipping life.  I fucking wish that was in me.  It's not.  Not like Jenny.  Because I stood on that cliff and realized two things, that I hold no value on my life...and that I'll never be able to take her path.  Because whatever hurt comes, I'll never be capable of that.  

And something came over me.  I felt fearless.  I wanted to live, fucking live and be dead by 35. Easy.  Simple. 

It's funny the way people always talk about the dead.  Because when we die, we all become heroes and saints and visionaries.  And we all have these priceless smiles and flawless hearts. 

Sure we do.  

Jenny was totally fucked, she was, but that was her, and I don't know what that made or makes me...but it makes me something.  And whatever that is, I'll take it.  And when I close my eyes, I see her face in the way she came, and I could see everything she was - and I may never know another beauty like that, ever.  Every day, the thought of it changes my life.

My goodbye came in the form of a hope that wherever she was, a part of her might feel the entirety of truth in me...and a scream, vibrating along and down the coast... 

"I fucking love you!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

...

Finally.

Fucking London...

I flew in last night - and nothing about anything that's going to follow here is anything Durban.  Let me make that crystal fucking clear while I try and sift my way through this newfound shit I'm in and everything that started back in Argentina.

I was recently swapping stains with this English bird who was caravanning across my country - or at least my country of choice for the moment - Argentina.  And before her, there were dozens - in the span of like a financial quarter.  I mean, like every other night, sometimes two in a single.  That's what I love about Argentine women, they just don't give a fuck so they just fuck.  And we're talking the beautiful and the distinguished.  They have this look and this superiority about them -- but it's all appearance and no attitude so they're highly fulfilling.  It's not like I'm paying for the women or picking them up off a corner -- I'm charming them.  I'm laying my wit and style on the line to see what's what, and it was my new and fully fulfilling hobby, like I was amassing this great collection...or so I thought. 

Cindi -- the English bird - was part of the game, no doubt.  First night I saw her, we're talking 40's Hollywood, spotting a dame from across the bar and that need, that fucking need.  I haven't had it in a long time - a long time.  That's why when we woke up together the next morning and I was still there - actually, we were at my place - my place of residence, I knew I was walking into something uncharted.  I'm not saying that this was building or that there was room for growth or that we didn't fuck that first night because we did, but there was something different about it.  Something sweeter.

Jesus, I'm starting to sound like Burn.

We hung for a couple weeks, and we actually did shit.  Like shit, like renting a car and driving places...actually going out to dinner and -- I don't know -- the point is -- I don't know what the point is.  This is sifting.

I don't know why I bought the video cameras.  I don't know why I needed to put her on tape - kind of against her will.  I'm not sure why I did this but am pretty sure why.  This is fucked up, but maybe because...

I've been trying to call her for a couple weeks now, ever since she left to go back to London.  She picks up the phone and just sits there.  Then when we finally do start talking, she just fucking yells and hollers and tells me I'm a fucking pig and that she never wants to see me or talk to me again and all I want to do is calm her down but she's yelling and I'm trying to reason with her -- trying to convince her that me filming her was my pedestal, that me filming her was my honoring her.  It's not like I was going to show my friends (I only have one and he lives in the Angel City) or post it - it was for me - for my personal collection.  Although it may sound like I've done this a lot, I fucking haven't.  I've never done it.  I was honoring her, and I'm not thick enough to think that she is going to ever understand that or even let it slide a little bit, but that's exactly what I was fucking doing. The shitty thing...

Is that I think she does, I think she understands it, exactly and all too well. Because, man, she can't lie to herself and she fucking knows me better than to think I would waste a single breath with a lie.  I know, again - same guy who kinda duped a girl into making a fuck film, but I've got principles. I've got fucking principles.  

Shit.   I'm messy.  So I'm in London, because everything about this has been eating me and I thought it was the only thing I could do.  I thought maybe I could come here, clean up and maybe run into her on the street or something.  London's alright - and it's too hard to score any drugs so at least I know things can stay clean for a while.   I could use clean for a while.  Right now, I feel poisoned and I don't feel right and there's this fucking sickness in me and I could grab a quarter key no prob and chase all this shit away...but I don't want to chase it away.  I want it.  I feel like I deserve it or maybe need to feel it and keep it around.  I don't know what it is, exactly, and further investigation may and could do me well, maybe could set me -- not straight but something. It could set me something.  And I'm wandering in another country again and nothing feels like home and maybe this was all I needed.

Mr. Sensitivity...

So I was out last night, had this great night - nothing like a bottle of red and an Argentine steak.  I've been seeing this girl from London - she's been down here the past couple weeks to tour the country.  I don't know what she does, but I know she has a lot of money.  Because she kinda acts like me or tries to.  Anyway, she made this great plan -- that me and her should jump town and head to this place called Medanos.  It's wine country.   I don't really know what that means, but I drink wine, especially on cocaine and we fuck like it's nobody's business and she's leaving next week, so if I didn't go with her, I'd be out in the fucking cold.   

I could dive into shit from the trip that would be great -- but I don't really know great.  We saw a sunset and it was big and red and to be honest, I just don't get it.  I leave that shit to my friend, The Burn.  Me, I dig other things.  Like, for instance...

Last night, when we were both drunk and running low on convo, I told her that I wanted to tape the two of us fucking -- because she was leaving the next day and I wanted something to remember her by -- my fancy line.  But of course, this wasn't the reason I wanted to film her.  Don't get me wrong, she's brilliant, really is.  Last summer, girl did the London half triathlon.  Girl's taut.  Girl loves to fuck.  Girl fucks solid -- so solid. But I was more interested in me. 

When I presented the idea, she laughed.  I held out my hand, told her to say no more - that was all I needed to hear -- obviously, she was totally cool with it.  The previous week, I had made an investment on three mini HD camcorders.  And these things are fucking tiny -- James fucking Bond.  And I hid them all over the house.  One in the laundry room because I fill the washing machine with golf balls and start it and fuck her as she sits on top of it.  She likes that.  Another one went in the living room because I purchased a fuck sling -- which is mostly like a hammock but for fucking but I don't really like it all that much.  It was okay the first time, but too hard to come. The last one went in the bedroom.  It's boring, but I knew this to be a safe fallback in case scenarios A and/or B failed. 

So we get home...so drunk, I had already driven the car into an embankment and we had to walk it the last mile.  So by the time we get home, we're already sweaty and the whole way, I'm telling her of all the awful things I'm going to do to her.  I told her over and over, how many times I was going to make her sing.  I talked about the washing machine, and the amazing bed -- trying so hard to steer thoughts clear of the fuck sling.  I couldn't deal.  Thank this godless world I didn't have to.

So she's already wildly wet without any real prep.  I'm telling you, fucking soldier, and...

You know that scene from the Departed where Jack Nicholson throws coke all over these two bitches and tells them -- I don't fucking remember what he told them.  Okay, so now I tell her to take me in her mouth and pull away.  When she does, I dust it with coke and tell her to do it again and off we fucking go.  We start in the laundry room - this high angle shot from the corner ceiling.  It could have been so good but the lighting was off - and I kept on trying to get her to lean back - for the shot, but I couldn't tell her. And those fucking golf balls -- they just bang so fucking loud.  So fucking loud.  I didn't even think to think of it.  Terrible sound.  And she was pitching gems.  Oxford educated, but the mouth on this girl, my fucking goodness. When she talks dirty -- I didn't even know what some of the words meant, I just knew I wanted them for my arsenal and that I was so high, I was literally trying to grab them out of the air and eat them and consume them and absorb them so they would become a part of me and so I could at a later time utter them with utmost intelligence.  On several occasions, she asked me what the fuck I was doing.  I didn't have an answer, just told her to keep talking vicious because vicious was keeping me hard.  I fucking live for vicious. 

Thank godlessness I had the bedroom camera. The house I'm staying in has this digital clock on the wall -- huge, obnoxious.  Because of it, I can tell you something about our duration -- the memory card ran out long before we stopped fucking.  We started at 3 on the kitchen floor - it moved into the laundry room until 4 - until we found that bed until 8.  Seriously.  I don't know how either.  Okay, maybe I do -- cocaine and lube.  And she loved me -- and this was supposed to be our goodbye.  Poor girl, someone besides me should've told her I'm soulless -- which I did, in fact...over and over.  I was constantly apologizing for my actions because I'm starting to feel like it's the right thing to do.  At least decent. I don't know.

She left today and when she did, I sat down to watch the footage. And I gotta be honest, I don't know if I like what I saw.  There's this curl that folds in on the bottom of my left ass when I'm fucking -- I don't like that.  And when she's on top and riding me, I don't like my face -- looks like I gotta piss real bad with nowhere to piss.  And I want my cock to be bigger.  I want to be the best there ever was.  I want her to go back and tell all her friends about some guy who fucked her like no one has ever fucked her.  I want to be the one she talks about until the day she dies -- the one she rubs to when she's got nothing else - the thought that works, without fail until the end of her time.  I want to be legend.   Durban.  

And I'm watching her and the way she moves and the way she rocks and the way she comes -- oh fuck, the way she comes.  And I'm thinking I should buy a ticket to London.  I'm thinking maybe I should follow her there.  No, I decide I'm going to follow her there, to her home, her country, to surprise her when all I can hear over my shoulder is what the fuck John -- and with much exclamation.  And she's standing there, watching me watching me fuck her and her eyes are gaping now that they're free of blow and Malbec and all I can tell you...she isn't happy.  

She came back for her passport -- always the fucking passport -- and I try to explain my interpretations of her claiming it to be fine, doing what I did.  And she isn't buying it and asks for the tape, which I have no choice but to turn over.  I ask her to stay and she says she doesn't think so and she grabs what she forgot, her fucking passport, and she walks out the door and I wait until she's gone then watch the video from the laundry room and I must say, with the lighting -- and sounds -- the crooked angle...it does have a sleight French New Wave look to it. And I have to admit, in that one I look pretty fucking good. 

Like a star. 

Why I Have Problems With My Friend, The Burn...

Burn,

First of all, you are a fucking moron.  Excuse my lacking sensitivity but if that's what you're looking for, you could always wrangle up one of your California pussies to weep to.  I lack patience.  

So you fell in love.  You fell in love in 6 weeks?  No, wait, sorry -- 4 weeks into it, you tell this girl that you love her.  What the fuck are you thinking, man?  Do you realize how long 4 weeks is?  I was kicked out of Princeton in 4 weeks.  Remember that?  No, you probably don't because you didn't know me then.  But even if you did know me, you wouldn't remember and you want to know why, because I was only there for 4 fucking weeks!  Wrap your head around it.

Now, I don't want to be an asshole and put words in your mouth.  So, what I'm going to do is quote you, thus letting you speak for yourself and then piss all over everything you're saying.  Let us begin.

"We had a lunch today that began with a heavy kiss and ended with her gift-giving and a heavy goodbye.  She drove away and I didn't watch -- some kind of conquering perception of mind -- my illusion of strength disallowed it.  I opened the gate and had to stop.  I felt light, like something was pouring from the soles in my feet, bleeding out into the concrete -- this force vacating my body, instantly replaced by another force, something heavy and daunting, a familiar thing to me."

A kiss?  You ended with a kiss?  Really?  So this girl cracks your fragile heart and doesn't at least have the decency to dish out a break fuck?  Obviously your head is shit.  Obviously, you're midway through one of your epic spirals, trying to talk your way through it, saying things like, "I'm gonna bury myself now, Kim and Val, Kim and Val.  Work, work, work.  Fuck the world, better alone, better alone, better alone."  Asshole, you always say it in threes.  And you'll get bitter and distant and fucking sensational.  Your hatred for the everyday man'll come back in roaring waves.  I like you dark.  You're more interesting that way so let me help.  You'll probably never find another one like her(6 weeks), you'll likely never love again(6 weeks), you'll never get hard for another woman(6 fucking weeks!).   She won, every sense of the word.  But I'll bet that if she spent time blogging the shit she was going through, no way she can write like that.  Who can?  You obviously have that on her -- what else matters?

Time for the speed round:

"I remember the world disappearing -- inside her -- I can't.  Too much."

Know what, I was going to go off on that.  Then, I Googled the bitch again.  Sorry, don't mean to call her a bitch, I'm sure she isn't - you speak highly -- but again, you're a fucking moron.  She injured my boy.  Fuck her.  Anyway, her pics...yeah, I'd get lost inside that too.  Confession -- I may have already.

"This great competence I praise in myself often fails."

I'm too lazy to even find a synonym for fucking moron.  Have I mentioned the 6 week thing yet.  Bag 'em and tag 'em.  Self investment is the only play.  These aren't difficult concepts.

"It's not an easy thing to do -- to let it go, when you want to fight for something you can't fight for."

Shoulda fucked her one last time.  That's raw, her non compliance.  I don't blame you for aching.  But think about this, she ain't fighting nothing.  Remember all the stories you'd tell, washing failed flames away, and freedom and breaking free and they'd cry and fight and all you wanted to do was wash them clean, move onward, move upward.  Name of the game is cut and run and you played it better than anyone.  Tables turn.  She's their revenge.  Eat it.  Tastes like shit but enjoy it. I'd tell you to go out and find another but you'll go off on one of your ridiculous shit spews, devaluing what you deem to be, "heartless, recreational fucks."  You'll tell me about how you rarely fall, that these things don't work for you and I'll god damn puke and I don't need to god damn puke right now.  Recreational fucks power the world.  They do. 

"I feel like this girl pulled 2-3 songs out of me.  2-3 songs that at any given moment could have cured all that ails and ailed.  Now that she's gone, they're gone.  They're lost.  And I'll never know.  I'm worried a night will come and the thought wont let me sleep, maybe for weeks.  Maybe I worry too much."

Jesus Christ -- and I don't even believe in the fucker.  Can I ask you a question?  Do you even know what you're talking about?  Okay, that's a bad question.  I know you know. And I get it dude, I do.  Or, actually, I don't, but I know you enough to pretend like I know, and that I get it.  I just see you down, I hear you down and I can feel it, and it ain't right. 

I read your shit right now and I thought back - that night I met you in London.  I think you were on your way back to Chicago and you told me to come meet you in the airport, in Heathrow.  They wouldn't let me in the terminal, and I had to buy a fucking ticket to Berlin but I met you in that bar and we drank Guinness and Patron the entire night and got so drunk.  They closed the bar and we had to wait outside gate 16 for your flight and had another 7 some hours to go.  I had already picked up a gallon of JD at duty free for no reason and we sipped on it and listened to your I-Pod on that shitty carpeting.  Everyone passed us, suspicious.  You started talking about this feeling you had, that nothing had come like it recently - that it was this calm, like you trusted your way in the world for the first time in your life.  Not surprisingly, I hadn't the clue what you were speaking.  You reached out to your I-Pod, changed the song - Modest Mouse's "Trailer Trash."  And you said, "It feels like this."  And we sat there and listened, passed the bottle back and fourth.  You had this look in your eye and I felt like I understood. I fucking got it, even if it was only for that second.  That was the moment I began to envy you. First man ever.   And I may never stop, even when you're a fucking moron, like now. 

Let her go.  You'll be fine.  You'll always be fine.  You're the fucking Burn, man.  The fucking Burn.

The Worst Shit I Ever Got Into...

Prague is good for two things -- hookers and cocaine.  

When I'm in town, I go to this place called The Palace.  It's good for the first part, hookers. But that's not to say I can't get laid.  I can, quite effortlessly and by women of high caliber. It's just...who doesn't need a tasteless fuck from time to time.  

The Palace is like an apartment building - four floors, 10 rooms per floor.  You go to a room, discuss the terms of use with the tenant -- handy, blow or fuck and off you go.  Most of the rooms are themed, that's to say the hookers make each their own.  Eastern Europeans in the sex biz know home decor. 

Excellent establishment. Full Durban stamp.

The only problem with The Palace is that I only go when I'm flying -- on the fringe of out of control.  The only other problem is that it's easy to score blow in Prague, in high quantities. Something about the market, the lagging transfer rate...it means I go to The Palace quite often.  

While we're on problems, let's talk about mine and that I come with a qualifying trust fund. See, before my father died, he knew me enough to know I'm a fuck up.  This he declared on many occasions.  He left me nets along the way...meaning that on my birthday every year, I would come into about a quarter of a million dollars.  It always happens sometime in the first quarter...mid February.  And by December, I'm usually broke as fuck, stuck somewhere far from home.  Three Decembers ago, I was in Prague.  Freezing fucking ass cold Prague.  I was there because I was chasing this girl, this model you've seen in dozens of mags, because I was swooned.  She literally spent 65,000 of my USD's in 8 days.  8 fucking days. She left to shoot in Bermuda when I was in semi-coma, left me with 400 dollars and a half key of coke.

The only way for me to get out of Prague was to sell it.  I had to get out of Prague.  I had to sell it.  

So I go to this address on Zlata -- room 6.  That's all I remember about it.  The abandoning bitch told me about a guy who told me about a guy who sent me to Zlata.  Okay, so at this point, I had never unloaded anywhere near this much narcotic volume.  I was fucking scared.  Eastern European men are fucking scary.  I didn't have a gun, but decided I needed to bring something in with me in case things got hairy.  On the way, as I was walking, I found a rusted hammer lying on the side of the road.  For some reason, I decided it to suffice. 

I got to the address, walked in the gate as someone walked out and climbed up to the 6th floor. Rooms 6-1 to 6-7 aligned.  At the end of the hall, I found room 6, knocked on the door, relieved to find this little fucking weasel on the other end.  He spoke shitty English, but well enough for me to understand and called himself The Baron.  This part I remember clearly because when he told me, I remember a band of snot flying from my nose as I fought to self-contain.

He was shaking, hopped on something.  He looked like he hadn't slept in weeks, all 40 some pounds of him.  I could have literally thrown him across the room with my cock.  Literally.

But he started acting bizarre.  In hindsight, I believe it's because he had Turrets, but at the time, he was only acting bizarre.  I started to think back to that scene in Scarface with the chainsaw and ambush and watching my brother getting carved to pieces, his blood and guts flying all over my face...me not closing my mouth -- and the stuff going in my mouth.  I didn't have a fucking brother.  It didn't fucking matter.  These emotions transfer.  He was pacing and yelping.  I was coming down and freaking out.  He put the cash on the table and reached into his pants when it happened.  I swung that hammer clear into The Baron's teeth...

There's a very distinct sound that happens when you clear out a man's teeth with a rusted hammer, like breaking through an egg shell -- soft, delicate, yet there's enough fortitude there to actually give the metal of the hammer a slight ring.  Unbelievable.  I stood over The Baron as he curled on the floor, weeping.  I said I was sorry, that I thought he was going for a chainsaw. He went into shock.  I called him an ambulance, took the money, left the coke, left half the money and got the fuck out of that country. 

Something In Her Way.

I thought it then, knew it when she disappeared.  This bird I knew when I was in Amalfi. Jennifer.  Don't know her last name, didn't think to care.  All I remember, her face, something in her stare that bled me.  It ripped through me.  All I remember, being inside her, watching her shake, feeling her quiver.  Those eyes.  Those fucking eyes.  I was electric.  For 2 weeks, we paired.  In cars, in alleys, in bedrooms we would never leave.  She was electric.

I didn't know anything about the pills we took.  I didn't know what had brought me to the Italian coast, but I was driving, fucked out of my mind and she was screaming at me and I couldn't hear a word of it.  Nothing was processing.  I was winding the coast in an old Alfa Romeo - topless - trying to hit a hundred miles an hour, screaming back I want to die I want to die I want to die. That much I remember. The cliffs were high.  I wanted so desperately to miss a turn, drive through the guardrails and fly away with her.  I wanted that to be it. I wanted to fucking end it and at every last second, I'd pull away - some guardian guiding my hand, pulling me back to the road.  I think she was egging me on.  She wanted me to do it.  I wanted to do it. Something in the pills, something in them bringing out something in the two of us, something vicious and exquisite and we both knew...everything too much.

We stopped.  We had smashed into a cliff.  Blood was running through her hairline, running through her dark strands.  Two days later, I would learn three of my ribs had cracked.  The car was fucked.  We fucked.  Her blood and my pain, everything so sobering and clear.  She told me then she loved me, the first and only time I had ever wanted to hear it in my life. We hitched a lift to Positano, got a room and stayed there, in bed, our hands and bodies twisted as the rain fell against our shutters and I thought that was it, our apologies and the end of me and anything I had ever thought I needed. 

When I woke, she was gone.  No note.  All I had left was the dried blood on her pillow. Fuck her.  Fuck her, all I could think - I would kill her if I ever found her again. Those words, those fucking words how dare she let slip.  I would kill her.  I'd take her back to Amalfi and show her my might, that it could be done, that I could put an end to everything - and be content, being with her...I'd tell her it was all for her - kiss her as we fell until the end found us.  I thought of the things I'd say, the things I'd do to touch her again, to have her there again knowing I'd never let go.  To tell her I'm never going to let go.

But I never saw her again. I knew I never would.

-- From my friend Romero, a friend of travels...that I received today --

"Durban.  I love you man.  Know that before everything. I'm sorry.  Jenny's dead, found her this morning.  It was her. Her. Nothing we could do. Nothing she left.  I'm sorry.  We all miss you. Come back soon.  I'm so sorry."  

Fuck The Burn.

He was sitting by the Eiffel Tower. This guy who would come to be known to me as The Burn. He was alone, kinda pathetic. I remember seeing him and wondering if he was fucking serious. He was writing in a fucking journal. Yeah, a journal.

I was waiting for two birds. That's the only reason you found me in Paris anywhere near the Eiffel Tower. I had previously met these two girls in Amsterdam. They were from Tokyo and there to get high for the weekend and wouldn't you know the three of us were the victims of overbooking. We had to share a loft, me and these two little beauties who were always wearing knee high, plaid socks. They were honestly always dressed as school girls, young ones, Asian nation ones. I wanted to fuck 'em straight away, both of them at the same time. I had to.

I bought bud, they had blow. Really excellent blow. Most narcotics found in Amsterdam can be considered prime to say the least. It was early in the night that first night and we were just starting to drink. I called a drug union, made theirs mine, mine theirs so I could hit a couple rails before we went out on the town. They didn't speak a lot of English, but my insistence made everything of theirs available to me, which was nice.

We went out, drank, smoked, bumped all night. At midnight, the shorter of the two gave me head in an alley, stopped right before I came. Knowing. Fucking knowing.

When we got back to the room around 3, it went right away. They started peeling each other's clothes off. They did it so sweet and gentle. I promised myself I would take note. I did. Then they took turns going down on each other. I watched them writhe and tease and play. It was one of the most magnificent things I'd ever seen. Then, they moved for me, ripped my shirt, took off my belt with their teeth. I was naked, kissing one from the side, looking down on another from above. She frowned, looking at me, waiting. Jesus Christ, I wasn't hard. I wasn't hard. Something was wrong.

She took me into her mouth. I think it was the taller one, but I had lost track. By now they were both on their knees, double team revival. Nothing was happening. Nothing. Not a movement. I didn't know what it was. I tried to explain. I said things like whiskey and blow and weed and that mystery yellow pill I dropped on Marnixstraat and fucking blue balls and double-fucking two Japanese school girls and the combination of everything but they didn't speak a lot of English.

The last thing I remember was watching them come for each other, sitting across the room in a rocking chair, praying it was all a dream, that I didn't actually fuck all of this up.

So there I was, waiting on a bench by the Eiffel Tower, waiting for redemption, waiting for these two girls to show up and knowing they never would. Things like that only happen once. I moved over, sat next to this person that someone called Riley. He offered me some bread and wine and I thought I could use him, this pretty faced, self-proclaiming "Adonis." What a fucking asshole. I liked him right away. I thought if we stuck together, I was gonna get laid and soon. I had been watching the way even French girls were behaving around him. Certainly, I thought he would be my ticket. We got really drunk that night.

Fuck the Burn.

Durban

Fuck The Burn. Coming Soon.