Punk Monk Press/Magazine

***ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED IN OUR FIRST PRINT EDITION. MSG VISCERALUTERUS@GMAIL.COM SUBJECT TITLE ZINE ORDER IF YOU WANNA COPY.*** She straddles the coffee table and takes a hit. Tendrils of smoke caress her face as they escape her mouth and dissolve into the ether. A dreamy haze floods her eyes; a smile creeps across her face. We are now both sufficiently high enough to go munch out at Mill Creek Café. We gather the necessities and head for the door, making it halfway up the stairs when my stupor is penetrated by one simple question from Our Editor: "Did you remember your pen and notepad?" Shit. Upon re-entering the premises, I suggest we take another hit. It seems like the right thing to do- we did come all the way down a half a flight of stairs, after all! We do another rip and head out. On our way back up the stairs, she beams: "Forgot your notepad again, didn’t you." Fuck sake! That last bong hit was clearly unnecessary. I trudge back down...

There was a time  when I was a younger man,  but probably should have still been considered  just a boy,  when I was so desperate  for a high  that I huffed spray paint  from a paper bag.  All the alcohol and marijuana was gone.  All the pills and cocaine were gone.  All the ecstasy and acid was gone.  It was either sniff glue or huff paint,  and I chose the latter because  I'd already tried the former earlier.  My roommate and I  had just returned to the house  after a weekend in Athens  full of football and parties.  We smoked the last roach  on the drive back,  but it did nothing for the hangover.  I'd been in a two day stupor,  and the only relics that remained  from the experience  were the sloppy suicide notes in my jean pocket.  I'd been frustrated  after getting rejected by a girl  who had flirted with me all day  ...