Just the Tip

Just the Tip


I walked inside and found Michael Tree sitting naked on the toilet in the dark with candles lit. Christ, I just had an absurd night and now I’m about to walk in on this motherfucker masturbating. Or doing some weird Ashevillian witchcraft meditation. The world won’t let me rest.

I slowly tip-toed toward the hallway attempting to sneak into my bedroom. He must have heard the front door shut, because when I looked up again he was staring directly at me in between groans.

“Take me to the hospital, I had bad milk.”
That’s when I noticed a trashcan filled with vomit on the bathroom floor.

“Okay man, sure. But wait. Try a gatorade first. And bad milk? Are you sure you aren’t drunk?”
I was drunk and I was sure. Drunker than I’d been in a while. Drunk enough to wind up in a vault somewhere Downtown with my egg-shaker and a nice boy who I didn’t bother warning about my fickle heart. I felt like I was just getting back from Shoprite Bar in Jersey. Nothing gets me drunker than Shoprite Bar.

“And I ate some mushrooms. They might have been bad too.”
“I KNEW it. This organic food you are always raving about must be just as poisonous as everything else. Or maybe it has something to do with all of the flies laying babies on the food left in the kitchen.”

“No. Psychedelic mushrooms.” He continued to throw up into the bucket. I could see his curly hair dripping with sweat in the glow of candlelight.
“Where are they?”
“The main compartment of my green North Face book bag in a glass jar.”
I walked away for a minute, then came back and poked my head into the bathroom. He was still vomiting.
“Okay, I just ate the tip of your last one. I’ll let you know in a bit if you had bad milk.”


I just ate some mushrooms for the first time. I don’t feel like projectile vomiting like Michael Tree just did. Do I feel that I will be able to actually write anything worth reading tonight, however? FUCK NO.
Which makes this night the same as the others.
Only it’s quieter. Aside from the random sounds of regurgitation coming from the bathroom.

There’s a moon out there with half a face. I saw it before when I was smoking a cigarette. Half lit and half smiling. I put the cigarette out to go find more of the mushroom stem. What’s the point of just the tip? That’s what she said. But it’s true. What’s the point of just the tip of a mushroom? Same thing with a penis. So it’s not really a joke. Don’t fuck with just the tip. Half of anything seems ridiculous to me.
I’m going to go smoke the rest of my cigarette and tell that to the moon.

The moon was hiding behind a tree when I went back outside. It’s the only tree in sight, which makes me feel like I’m being mocked. I’m not here to play games. So I started laughing because it reminded me of something I discovered not too long ago, but then I became distracted by my arms. Why are they dancing all the way over there? I need to go get them. 

Michael Tree is violently ill demanding a blanket while spilling carrot juice in the hallway. He’s sleeping in the hallway. He wakes up and sounds like a cow that’s just been tipped. It’s not a sound I want to hear right now. He thinks he needs the hospital. He really just needs some pants. I called his girlfriend. She didn’t answer. Let me use your phone, she might not be answering because she doesn’t know the number. She still didn’t answer. I tried to brush my teeth. What the fuck am I even doing? A person can’t brush their teeth without arms. 

The third time I went back outside the moon wasn’t being playful anymore. It was gone. I lit the same cigarette I’d been lighting the whole night and the filter was wet with something new. Or old. It doesn’t matter.
And that made me remember my thought from before. It’s all the same. No matter where you go, it’s all the same. I’m just beginning to realize nothing matters much because it’s all the fucking same.

And somewhere behind the mountains the moon is laughing half a laugh because its known that all along.

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