dro files

so ya know yer like sixteen year old and yer fuckin breakin out to some extent but yer still under the yoke of yer 'rents, which is an unfavorable sitch in certain respecks. one time maybe you bust loose 'cause yer bro stanislewski's got hot wheels know and yer burnin up the town with the crew, hep cats all, an y'all decide that it's round about time to groove on schenley park, ya know the deepest dankest parts, where the hollow dips into the huge motherfuckin pond below the pretty atrium place. this is the spot where samonetti takes his girl when he's feelin to get his dick wet, so ya know it's solid jive, he says, and ya gotta believe him when he's all hard on about it. and maybe you've taken like one toke off a five-toke weed prior to this particular occasion, but yer by no means prepared for the kind of hydroponic delights those dirty dudes are peddling in the 'Slib these days. ya certainly never drooled five tokes off a one-toke dank like this before. so maverick o'donahue is packing the bowl all sick like, and y'all are passing that dropiece around with the houselights of south oakland reflectin in the silver pool all mystic and shit, pretty straight and reg, until OOOF BAM!, yer fuckin a miniature human figure dwarfed by the landscape in some droed up hudson valley school "ideal landscape" art history 101 shit and you can't get out of this artificial world for the life of you. it like makes you want to question that free will jive that's essentially the first principle of all catholic moralities, and then the very thought of power and institutions and universal ethics ignites yer super-ego, and you remember yer parents, probably shopping at pottery barn on walnut street right now for monogramed dish towels or some mundane shit, and ya start makin weird abstractions and incarnations. ya get heady self-conscious and ya think to yerself, "i gotta strengthen up and put a stop to this." and with this act of shopenhaeurian will YOU become the incarnation of an authority figure enforcin the rule of cosmic law upon yerself. you run up to yerself, ya shake yerself, thinkin, this guy must be helped out of his bad sitch. but it's all so fuckin illusory. before you know it there's a thousand of you just rollin like the sands of the ganges against the pond, and you start to forget which of the incarnations is really you. yer bros think yer havin an epileptic fit, so they steal yer pants and take photos of your balls. so that's like a pretty bad high. and that night, sleepin at stanislewski's place, you have the most morbid fuck dreams this side of the crazyhouse sequence in the lady from shanghai. ya get acquainted with the vortex, ya dig.