I know that this was not the end result I was looking for when I asked Danbox and Chris if we wanted to have a few drinks last night...but what do you expect when the reason you don't drink is because of how it awakens The Dark Passenger inside?
Hazy eyed and determined to piece together just how the events of last night unfolded, I surveyed the house for telling signs, and after one single cautionary glance I could tell that we let this shit get out of hand.
Stale and half eaten wraps on the floor, mustard on the wall, three glasses of water beside my bed, an onion with a bite taken out of it (seriously, who even does that?), topped off with a minefield of metal cans and knives everywhere; it's safe to say I don't want to check my phone for the inevitable drunk texts.
Checking the washroom for more signs of having too much to drink, hardened vomit the color of the sixties stained the sink, toilet and wall (so that's why my throat hurts).
I could see Chris passed out on his air mattress, still holding a can of Strongbow in his hand, or was it Brewhouse beer? I couldn't see straight, my head was killing me.
I also faintly recall the presence of my next door neighbor Paul coming over at some point...ah yes now I remember, I fed that Australian bloke so many drinks last night that he felt like he could take on anyone...(Did I try to give his girlfriend a back rub last night? Shit, I hope he doesn't remember that!).
This house is a write off, not unlike my current brain function.
This is not the type of mess left behind by healthy minds, no, this is a mess created by the dark motivations uncovered by too much fucking booze and too much desire for the past to be the present.
I remember now, I almost called her...Chris probably did, and who knows what personal demon Danbox unleashed of his own?
I remember making my way to the living room to see what condition the little box man was in, and it looks as though we were not all casualties of last night's events .
There on the couch I found Danbox passed out on top of my guitar, with his guitar around his neck, an empty bottle of Jack Daniels and a slight smile on his face.
I remember clearly now, how he played that guitar last night with such passion, like this was his moment, as if he was playing to a crowd of thousands. I remember sharing that excitement with him, and bonding over playing "Forty six and Two" by TOOL.
It doesn't matter what dark thing hides beneath the surface of any of our smiles, because in the end, The Dark Passenger will always fall to passion.
"Oh god I am going to be sick again"
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