Okay I’m not a clown. That’s not true but I felt like I was a clown yesterday morning after I snorted two lines. My nose felt larger than life and my feet felt flappy. Usually, you get an absurd burst of confidence but not yesterday. Actually, all the names that I’ve written under do reflect this truth. I’ve felt like Tom Cruise after freebasing and I’ve felt like Britney Spears after dabbling in crack. I’m a drug addict and everyday I try some new drug or – more likely- combination of drugs and then write based on the person that the concoction invokes. Yes, it’s fucked up but that’s my life.
    Here’s today’s story.
    (Stay tuned for tomorrow’s tale: Oprah Winfrey in a K-Hole.)

Cocaine Nose Jobs

     Michael opened the bathroom door to his two roommates who were lock, stock and barreled within some kind of wrestling hold. With a gun. With a gun held firmly across Sidedish’s face. Michael blinked and shook his head.
    “What the…?”
     “It’s cool. Sidedish is down with this.”
     “Yeah, don’t bitch out on us. This is all per request,” Sidedish said out of the side of his face in which his lips were bunched up under the pressure of Gogol’s knuckles. “It’s just my nose. His gonna take off my nose. We’ve got bandages and shitloads of painkillers.”
     Michael wiped the shock off his face with one slow swipe of his hand while he balanced himself with his other hand on the white bathroom door. “Why the shit would anyone want you to take off their nose with a gun ?”
    “Sidedish says it’s got him on the run.”
     Sidedish nodded.
     “You gone cracker on me ? You’re not making no sense, G.”
      “Sidedish says that late at night his nose gets up, steals money from us and then goes out to buy blow,” Gogol looked Michael in the eye, “and I believe him.”
     “He’s gone cracker and you’re gonna believe him ‘cause he stole your money ?” 
     “No, man. He shot it last night on his cell. Check that shit out,” G-Dog nodded to the cell phone balanced like an open razor-blade on the side of the bathtub. Michael picked it up and saw what appeared to be Sidedish’s nose blurred across the floor.
     “Yo, G, he’s hating on his own nose. It got an addiction of its own.”
     “It’s like it’s not even mine. Like maybe it was switched at birth with some assholes or something ‘cause this isn’t my nose.” Before Michael could administer more reasons to the situation the gun went off and the nose flew through the newly shattered window and fell into an open window two stories down. It landed in a bowl of bread dough and the Russian woman, distracted by the gun-shot, failed to notice the foreign ingredient. She continued stirring while staring at the photo of her strong husband pinned to the wall. In the photo he held two smiling immigration officers. That evening, they found a nose in the freshly cut loaf of bread.

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