Acid Flashback No. 33

Remembrance Day is observed on November 11th in most countries since the bitter end of hostilities of World War I, but every fucking day is like World War III on Tuesday in my world.

Halloween isn’t actually over and every day is Halloween for cases like mine. I’m scared shitless of the fucking fragmented flashbacks that haunt my mind. I’m experiencing a really bad flashback now and all I want to do is slave myself to the keyboard and write and write about what’s really important. My motherfucking memoir needs to be written. I’m writing my biography called Being Richard Tattoni. I’m writing flashbacks of my childhood and visiting a cherry farm in Oregon. My mind trips out a few more times watching Planes, Trains and Automobiles and now I’m back home again anticipating a bloody Civil War in Oregon and pissed I can't contribute to the war effort. I'm in the basement with a straightjacket on, defining what lies between war and peace and all I ever really wanted. But the truth would be repeated as a massive echo, almost like I was a politician trying to win a comedic nomination.

My friends, I would describe my life as the chase for the American Dream. That chase began at the bottom of the hill just off the main drag in good ol' Burlington, Ontario -- right outside of Hamilton. Atop the hill was a small house in a shining city in its own right. The hill had twists, the hill had turns, 7-Eleven, and even a few tears, nothing wrong with that. Floyd Mayweather’s barber shop was down the street. As an 11-year-old boy, I would throw the football and climb the monkey bars for the first time in my life knowing I would be recruited by Oregon State University.

STOP. I didn’t go to Oregon State University. I didn’t fucking go to Oregon University. All I know is that the Ducks narrowly defeated Arizona State in a shootout. It’s setting the stage for a bloody Civil War in Oregon. The worst the state has ever seen. I’m outta the straightjacket now and getting fucking migraines and everything is spinning from these goddamn flashbacks. History will be kind to George W. Bush, but why the fuck isn’t his name spelled the same as Busch Beer? Jeb Bush won’t get the motherfucking Republican nomination because his name is spelled differently than the beer and that’s the fucking truth. Son-of-a-bitch, I’m having a bad flashback and it’s hurting. I had to brush off the motherfucking cobwebs on the old dictionary to look up acid flashback.

ac·id flash·back

(ăs′ĭd flăsh′băk′)

n.

1. a psychedelic experience caused by your body metabolizing LSD stored in the fat of your body after LSD usage in the past.

2. an ostrobogulous psychological phenomenon.

3. Jerry Garcia's revenge.

Throwing the Richard Tattoni Free Dictionary against the wall, I'm pulling down my navy blue track pants and masturbating to images of Sarah Palin as she's entering the GOP presidential debate wearing nothing on the X-Rated imaginary CNN in my delusional mind. She walks off the stage and she's 3-D, but it's way fucking better and she's like 11-D as she pops into real life and now we're having a motherfucking tea party together all bare-ass and naked in the basement of The Tattoni International Hotel & Tower. My head has been spinning and I hear the doorbell upstairs as it rings and rings louder. I realize everything is spinning and ringing in the base of my skull after a long night.

Now that I'm real, I know who I am, and what my doctor can do for me. Dr. Strange says I've been having bad dreams and that I should take up hobbies like writing. My memoir needs to be thousands of fucking more pages and I need it to be longer than Moby Dick, but it won't be the worst of me. It's all in my head and I can friggin' control strange thoughts.