I guess I have to start somewhere...

I sat and glared, my mind reached out helplessly, like the sole survivor of a capsized ship, desperately seeking anything to grasp hold of, coming back with nothing but handful after handful of morbid curiosity and absolute horror. His vacant eyes rolled back into his head, as he thrust his pelvis violently, cock-whipping the sagging crotch of his ill-fitting jeans, as if it were well-trafficked rug being being cleaned by the pendulous swings of an old straw broom. A halo of wild brown fuzz engulfed his head, like Christ in Majesty, remaining completely stationary despite the chaos ensuing below. Dressed in full bum regalia, from the too-short jeans that hovered nearly a foot above his worn shoes, to the over stuffed winter coat, which if it had a tag, would have likely read "Hand wash only. 70% garbage bag, 30% Duct tape." His tongue darted rhythmically, back and forth, over the few small and sparse jagged Chiclets that clung desperately to his gums. Like battered lovers, they would never leave him, despite his neglect. He reminded me a bit of Frederick Douglass, if Frederick Douglass had thrown in the towel on the whole abolishonist gig and turned to a life of angel dust and dirty dancing. Under any other circumstances, a sight like this wouldn't have been out of the ordinary, the weird tend to be drawn to me, the way aliens are drawn to Reese's Pieces, or Bluetooth headsets and gold chains are drawn to Persians. This, however, was a children's party, on New Year's Eve, where gratuitous dick flailing to Sugarhill Gang's "Apache" seems to sway just a tad to the side of inappropriate.

Somehow, a strange young pullet had been attractive to this mans bizarre mating ritual. A good three feet shorter than him, she looked to be about twenty from behind and fifty from the front. She was wearing some kind of hot pink dress, that could have easily been patched together from parts of a high school prom dress, a few scraps of lingerie  and possibly a bit of leather fetishwear or a Thriller jacket that she just couldn't part with. With her gaunt cheeks, she grinned up at her partner's face, revealing a complete lack of molars.  Although she seemed to be aiming for seductive, her smile said "fit me with a bridle" more than "come get me, you black stallion." Her hair was short and jagged, dyed one of those Hot Topic colors that she should have grown out of a few decades ago.  

Now here I am, watching Dirty Dancing in the Hood meets Return of the Living Dead, suffering the absolute worst case of "discontinuation syndrome", a friendly little term that doctors like to use when you're withdrawing from all the good, legal drugs that they like to dispense like Pez. Withdrawal is a nasty term. You only withdraw from drugs when you're dead broke, you already pawned your mom's TV, stole all the copper pipes from her house, and you're fresh out of stranger dicks to suck for fast cash. Discontinuation syndrome on the other hand, is just the shit that you go through when you've had enough with synthetic apathy, and trudging muddled-mindedly through the lukewarm swamps of the working world, and stop taking those illegible little Post-It notes to the white coat dope dealer at the local pharmacy.  Take a minute to imagine the worst flu you have ever had, and multiply the discomfort of that by about nine thousand. Not that "shit your pants in public" flu that people like to claim they have, after eating five pounds of shrimp at the local Phoenix Panda Moon Dragon China Buffet. That isn't the flu. That is just a case of not giving a fuck that Phoenix Panda's on staff crustacean surgeon took a day off, and you devoured a few hundred of those little critters, poop chute completely intact. I'm talking the real flu. The aching, sweating, can't hardly breath, feeling like you had an unprotected triple x throwdown with Gaëtan Dugas in the early 80s, waking up on the bathroom floor type flu. This was hell.. if hell had tunnel vision, pointed directly at some strange zombie mating ritual.