Spinal Weed (A very short story rooted in reality)

The hardest thing I had to do this week besides editing 5 video scripts 15 times as a VP for the biggest ad agency in the world: Finding my doctor’s new office off Washington Square Park. I met a bunch of Russian tourists on the way there and pointed then in the direction they wanted to go. Guess I know lower Manhattan better than I thought. Go ahead, you try to know it.

Anyway, I got 2 sets of digits while directing them to Sheridan Sq. There's an influx of model-esque Russian girls in NYC. God, they are beautiful. How can they be so skinny with such big tits? And a so un-American high sex drive. Don't they realize that sex is a sin?

Back to Washington Sq. Pk. The street addresses around the perimeter of the park are fucked up. They are flat out blatantly random. There's a 15 next to a 70 and across the street there's a 221 next to a 420. The logic of even numbers on one side of a street and odd on the other is abandoned. The expectation of sequential addresses, for example, a 15 followed by a 17, just plain ain't there. You pretty much have to walk around for awhile and get a feel for the area.

Go ahead, google Washington Square Park. You figure it out.

I walked 15 blocks to get a lumbar puncture. And then walked back to work. So for all of you who have a little cold or had a little headache or cramp and decide to sit out a day like a whimpy pussy, try getting a spinal tap and resume work. I worked through this one, although I ended up with a killer headache. At least I got a fat bag of stinky weed in the park. Fucking skunk whisp. With a nice mist of trainspotting tar. Splashed with smack. Enough to notice, enough not to need.

I rolled a joint and fired it up with a bunch of NYU hipsters. I felt like Johnny Fever hanging out with a bunch of mouseketeers. By the time I got back to work, I was tripping balls. Maybe I shouldn't have done that right after an invasive cerebrospinal fluid procedure. You know what? Who fucking cares?

These mild dry leaves make me horny as all hell. Then again, they say that's a side effect of a lumbar puncture. Great. A 5 hour boner. Actually, not much different than the summer of 2005. Except I wasn't on anything, then. Well, I was on something, but it was more of an on top of kind of thing. We'd switch positions so many times I think just to capture every angle, every nuance of penetration. I think we knew our time was limited. We stopped before we were finished.