Brain-tangled, hungover on the couch staring through the newspaper, trying to catch up to the day, something he can't do sick from the snorted morphine comedown until the morning joint kicks the warm back in again (a little) and he finds himself pumping longbow arrows into a fiberglass deer stalled in the snow of his backyard where he drinks Bloody Mary’s before going to see The Ramones' End of the Century at an art-house theater into which he sneaks a tab of OxyContin he unfoils and chews in the pisser stall. From there it's the power chords of wanting to be sedated beyond a teenage lobotomy before bouncing rubber-legged from the movie to Norman's party, pint nipping his way through a typical a-typical day, one where he drops grudges, imagines he's put on the charm, lays off the bullshit for a while as he ignores the Big Game and nods to the hipster crowd’s sarcastic play by play in slow-mo until someone calls his girlfriend to snag him up for the blurry ride home during which only one thing becomes perfectly clear: he’s lost his wallet and has no idea what he’s done with it or himself or anything.

Matt Mullins
Eugene Marten