Here's the problem with writing a book...it fucking sucks. I'm sitting here in front of my laptop and I'm in Berlin right now for a couple weeks and the world is happening out there - all the fucking time in this city - and I'm sitting here taking my turn writing a chapter about time I spent in Prague, alone, when I was broke and had to pull some shit to get out of that country. Actually, you can read the abridged in my back logs - "The Worst Shit I Ever Got Into."
Fucking Burn. Fucking Burn pulled me into this shit. When we agreed to do this, I figured I could binge out a weekend bender and float a couple ten thousand words his way and that would be that - he would take care of the rest. Instead, as it turns out, I'm responsible for whole fucking chapters - I have to hold up whole fucking chapters. And not just that but Burn wants to do this thing where it's all in order if you can believe the fucking stones on this guy. It means that our story starts the day we met in Paris and we do this tag-team narrative that totally worked for me but then we finished Paris and now I'm up on Prague, alone, and Burn can't do his chapter until I finish mine for what he calls sake of avoiding repetition or theme or maybe it's just so he can babysit my juvenile tendencies and completely absent work ethic and he's writing me every fucking day just nagging and pulling on me and giving me shit and keeping me in line and I've been sitting here for the third day in a row because the fucker is whipping me from behind and my eyes are bleeding and my brain is bleeding and sometimes I think I haven't a fucking clue what I'm doing. Fucking Burn. Fucking Burn. Fuck you Burn. There is nothing easy about this, nothing enjoyable.
I don't mean all that. Because, well...
Reading back what I'm getting down goes something like this - just a taste...
"I woke up the morning of Christmas Eve on the hardwood floor of my Boscolo Carlo presidential, covered in cold, rank piss. Someone was pounding on the door. I ditched my pants and approached to find the general manager standing with 2 heavy brutes. He was holding a copy of my bill in his hand, telling me that my card had been over-extended, that I was no longer welcome at their establishment. In Paris, London or Rome, or anywhere in the states, or anywhere but what seemed to only be Eastern Europe, I could have made a phone call and been fine - and would have been graciously accomodated. Problem with Prague, it was my first visit - no one knew or gave a shit about who John Durban was. They didn't know of my worldly status or worldly friends and I wasn't going to begin to tell them. To them, I was just a broke deadbeat with a bum credit card.
I did, however, still manage to negotiate 30 minutes to take a shower and change into some clean clothes, all the while trying to piece the pieces of the previous night together. I've always found the shower to be an excellent avenue for recollection and thought and right as those warm and resurrecting ropes of water hit my face and ran over my scalp, I remembered everything. We were at Girl's house the night before, somewhere just outside the city, having dinner with her family. They were serving Goulash of some sort - I think that's what Girl called it in translation. I remember trying to eat it and my entire face being so numb from the cocaine -- that's right, we had picked up an uncut key on the way over -- that I couldn't chew. I put a bite in my mouth and just sat for what seemed to be either two hours or two minutes. Everyone was speaking Czech and arguing and I think they were insulted by my being there, some rich American/Euro boy fucking the life out of their overnight rich Czech Italian Vogue cover girl and I could see it in their eyes, their bleeding envy, every one of them wondering when their cut was coming."
And I'm not even the anchor. Fucking Burn...
