Scraping up the pits and spanky skins. Squeezing the low grade pomace oil out my hide. Making grappa out of my glands. I'm feeling roughly ridden and put away sticky. Again, my creative powers are cooked, but I'll give it the old dirty ninja try. Do I start straight off with the ER on Sunday night? Or........

Thursday night. The posse had proclaimed desires to witness the NYC blogger vixen contingent. Course, wrangling these slacker bastards together for punctual success is futile. Almost to the person, all my homies are tardy superstars. I will wave to them from the port hole window of the extraterrestrial escape vessel, frustrated expressions all around back on terra firma, watching me enter the stratosphere on the intergalactic fun bus towards the pleasure planet. Jav even bailed, cell phone style, half an hour after we were supposed to meet.

Luke was on an hourly update of "five more minutes". Playing Mad Libs, wacky zany career history edition. I was cutting him much slack, since homie needs that freelance gig with a quickness. Cash money capers are in short supply. The hovering orb glyph of patience was warding off the skull dagger goblins. Professional looking resume definitely greater import than the flow of joytime poisons.

Sometime after seven, Luke and I convene on the southeast corner of Tomkins Square. Peddle the feets uptown. Chuckles had about my freak spacing. Middle button still not repaired on my wool jacket.

Once we hit the hood amid Slate, Luke had yet to see a place to fill his complaining stomach. A phantom burrito shack was in his memory. We scaled up and down numerous streets for this mexcellent delight oasis. Defeated, Luke decides he wants to test the tastebud waters at Bed Bath and Beyond, the tantalising sight of the sandwich display having piqued his tongue curiosity before. He grabbed a grilled chicken number, I picked one of them Naked drinks.

Luke's cell rings. The aforementioned punk ass bailer, Jav, wants to know why we are not joining him and Caroline for dinner in Slate's basement. Sigh and grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr. Already after eight. Luke dusts off his crumbs and I wipe my blueberry banana moustache from my lips.

The doorman asks if we are here for the party. Party? Immediately he susses that we hardly resemble the corporate retirement fete sort. I grip my sight, trying to form details out of the dimly ochre lit room, for faces I am guessing people would look like. Nothing clicks. Descend the stairs, Jav and Caroline still chewing their grub. One drink and one final pass around the place, and we decide to bounce.

In the back of Mona's, satan's anvil is kicking up steam. The pipes were punching us around. The rocks in my glass melting like orphaned glacier fragments in the Dead Sea. Anna, a short lived flame of Luke's arrives. Sticks were bending limp in our palms from the oppressive radiated heat. We forfeited our champion claim on the table. Motored toward Whiskey Ward.

Shawna opens the arms, asks what we want. I order five dirty Mexicans, one for the bar maiden naturally. Shots of tekillya spiked with salsa caliente and lime drippings. Clears the nostrils. Puts the shaft into neutral. Soon we slapped our dicks on the table, snatching possesion of each successive break. Invading bridge and tunnel chumps always become upset. Having, what they thought, was a triumphant time slumming in sweet sweet LES, until the natives come around and shove them into the stock pot, encircling them in a chanting feeding dance. Pleases me to no end to put a frown on these khakied interlopers. Thanks for depositing some cash in our coffers, now scram ya french vanilla one scoops.

A leather draped danger slut demands to be towel whipped. I oblige. She seems disappointed. Granted, I was sloshing about in my sea of vodka by that point, crisp cracks may not have been possible. Indeed, the inebriated indicative memory swiss cheese haze began at that point. I do remember feeling the Batman protocol. Sliding on the cold abating wraps. Disappearing into the night, unnoticed by pals and strangers alike.

Apparently, I departed too soon. The leather draped danger slut had left, unbeknownst to me, and came back with a cat o'nine tails. Looking for a proper tanning. As I wasn't there to command the reigns of the whip, Shawna the bartender took control. This is second hand tales, so I shouldn't try to relay them. However, my imagination is well enough to brightly envision that Russian beauty make that light skinned honey's skin sing. A ceremonial chubby has been had.

I actually leapt from my Whiskey Ward barstool, cause I had some ideas of other ladies. To my exquisite surprise, Val was driving the bottles that night, covering Erin's shift. Erin would also have been a splendid bonerific option. Again, the fog of firewater fumes clogs the memory engines. I do remember getting chummy with Val after the place closed down. Don't remember doing anything particularly naughty. Don't remember the walk home. Parts of the bodega trip, purchasing water, tomato soup, and Payday bars smudge the recollections. Woke up with double calf cramps from the cold air, as I passed out starkers, with my feet on my pillows, uncovered and exposed to the chill. Don't remember pouring myself into bed.

My constitution has taken a hit. Unable to continue and tell of Friday night, which was insane. For those concerned for my health, what are ya, nuts? Seriously though, I am quite run down at the moment. The emergency room visit was inconclusive, and the follow up at the docs was as well. Unexplanable chest pains and inability to breath properly. More tests to go. So far, the consesus is that my chemical imbalance and overriding depression, basically my freak loon brain, is clamping down on my body. I will go into further detail when my batteries reload again. Peace out munchkins.