I was in a realm beyond tired. I had been jacking my lumber since 9 thirtyish and it was well on past five. When your heart's on fire, SWEAT gets in your eyes. I despise sweating and don't recommend it to anyone. One of my first relationships ended because of this. It wasn't an issue of body odor. When we were intimate, she thought I only lasted three minutes at time-not true-I would excuse myself and stand in the refrigerator door. "Are you eating?" She called out. "Not yet, my Eskimo pie." I answered. It was never to be. She explained she was frustrated and I told her I only went for a few minutes because she was so gorgeous. I did care for her. Hey, I had to pony up for the salt lick when we went on dates. She finally said goodbye when I innocently asked if we could make love in the walk in cooler of the convenience store she worked in. I broke into a sweat and left.

Back to the morning wood: Sure I am exhausted but I want to live it up-like my wild and crazy young days I often fabricate. I over did it today but I really pushed the bounds of reality by nightfall.

I fell asleep with a remote control in my hand. I got a bit SKEERT because I suddenly couldn't remember what it controlled and what buttons I might have pushed during the light slumber. Either I had turned the television to something silly or some kid was scared of runaway controlled car. It didn't matter.

Before I spill the contents of the tragedy, I would like to make excuses for myself as to why this happened: 1. Recent attempts to straighten up and fly right a bit with the singed feathers that remain. 2. An unexplainable regression which is digging KISS. This is SICK. I have problems. Just the other day as I was viewing all six hours of the KISSOLOGY box set, I grabbed two ink pens and kept time with Pete on the arm of the couch to 100,000 YEARS-yes, the 17 minute drum solo. Who needs a life? Not me, I just went WILD. I am back.

I am parched. There are an assortment of drinks on the counter-exactly where they go-all I knew was that it had a lid and I thought it said PEPSI…
…it said FLORASENSE ISLAND COLADA (simmering potpourri liquid.) on the counter-exactly where it went. Yes, I've ingested some questionable things in my time, but at this point guzzling my own urine would have been a delicacy. I thought NEW COKE was bad. I once shot a coffee cup of SWISS ALMOND CHOCOLATE schnappster when I was a wee lad. Did a line of Peach Vodka as a teen-McCormick's at that. Barracuda 151 straight. I hit the vanilla extract when there was no more 151. Pineapple juice from a rusty can…

I've never drank the following concoction, but it is the closest sensation I could describe: One part clabbered milk (2%), a mixture of half cigarette ashes and half acetone, a squirt of Summer's Eve (Hint of Hooka Luau) blended, heated, aged and fermented in the arses of desert nomads. I got on the horn to the poison control center.

"Poison control center."

"I am inherently stupid."

"Okay, do you have an emergency?"

I gave about ten excuses before 'fessing up to what I had done.

"Dude, I was tired…thought I was Gene Simmons breathing fire over the Budokan audience…my childhood was deplorable…I thought it was Sierra Mist but I didn't like it and didn't inhale when I should have blastnostricated."

"ALRIGHT. How much did you drink?"

"I didn't DRINK it. It was an accident."

"DID YOU SWALLOW ANY OF IT?"

"Yes. Yes and I spit out a mouthful as well. (I was insane-the Pina Colada taste was merging with the metallic taste of fear-I had to do something) I usually swallow…but…"

I thought he forced a chuckle-or perhaps he just said something foul under his breath. I didn't care about his breath, mine was heaven-just not the taste. I started blowing (see above) just to inhale the scent. Then I felt sick.

"Taking any medications?"

"Ummm, yes. Probably why I am in the mess."

I tell him what meds I am on. He continues with the makeup of the substance I had chugged-usually oils. USUALLY? Probably? Maybe?

"Should I just put my fingers down my throat and get it over with?"

"I see no reason for it."

"So, do you get this a lot?"

"Yeah. Usually at a different time of year."

(Hey, what do you mean by that, man? I wondered. You think just because a guy
sips potpourri he can't start a riot?)

I went on with him as if it were a crisis hot line. (You hang up and I'll do it, man. I'll even break out the lilac and lavender-then how will you control poison?)

The call ended like so many of mine do…

"It's not going to kill you."