I Leave For Five Minutes....

and everything turns to shit around here. Well, don't worry; Vlad and I are back.

I want to tell you that everything is going to go back to normal, but I'm not that good a liar, even over the internet. A lot has gone down in the last two weeks, and I guess I owe you a story. I'm still not as elaborate as Alan or Alfonzo, but I hope I can entertain you for a little while.

Kansas.... it was a legitimate mistake, in my opinion. The midwest has this tricky little habit of naming cities that aren't in the state they are supposed to be. I'm from California, and Vlad is from Russia; how the hell are we supposed to know that Kansas City is not in Kansas, but in Missouri. The same goes for East Saint Louis, which is (thankfully) east of real Saint Louis, though not in the same state. And I'm pretty sure the Midwest has more than its fair share of Springfields.

All of that is really beside the point. I am from California, and I am not afraid to admit that California is perfectly happy to go on believing that it is the only state in America; the purists believe that California is Earth's only land mass. The rare Cali emo-kid will occasionally accept the existence of Portland, Oregon. So how am I supposed to know the geography of Bumblefuck, USA?


About Alfonzo... he's lucky we took our time getting home. If we'd found a way back in those first three days, he may not be alive today; if we'd gotten back a week ago, he'd probably still be tied to some humiliating object. In the last week, I've come to certain conclusions about Alfonzo's mental health, as well as conclusions about how I want to live my life. It's complicated, which is an interesting change for me.

I guess I forgive you, Alfonzo. I say "I guess" because I'm not sure this is a matter of forgiveness. Anyway, I don't hold it against you. Vlad is, as usual, completely without an opinion on the issue. I didn't think Buddhism made it all the way up to Russia, but I think Vlad is proof-positive of the fat asian man in a fur hat.

Right, so last time you heard about us, it was almost two weeks ago, and we were drunk in Kansas. I guess that's where I'll pick up:

I've said it before (last paragraph), but Vlad can drink. Alfonzo made us think that he wasn't angry about the mix-up, so we went out drinking. I tried to keep up with him, and I got fucked up faster than a white kid wearing a gold chain in Compton. I don't remember much from this point, but Vlad tells me that Alfonzo knocked him out with the potato cannon.

I woke up on a dusty old carpet, staring up at ceiling covered in water-stains. Vlad was tucked into a small bed on the side of the room. My shirt was gone, and I couldn't find it in the room. I thought about all the fucked-up stories and fantasties and movies that start like this; some guy wakes up in a strange house, and he's been kidnapped by some crazy woman who wants him as a sex slave.

I found the door and stepped out into the living room, which might be the brownest room I've ever been in. I walked around until I found a woman, stirring something in a pot. Marjorie, a sixty-something Kansas widow. Alfonzo dumped us in the middle of one of her pastures, and she found us while she was running a bobcat off her property. She told me that if I hadn't been covered in vomit, the two of us might have been eaten. Apprently I helped to get Vlad into the back of her pick-up, and then into bed. She took my shirt so she could clean it, but she decided to burn it instead. She gave me a red plaid long-sleeve shirt from her husband's closet. I guess I wasn't really thinking clearly, because I took the dead guy's shirt and put it on before sitting down for breakfast.

I've got to get off of blogger, now, or I'll lose it. I'll come back to this, I swear.

-Chaz