Appetite for Destruction and I Lick the Plate, pt 2: He sold the van for ten bucks and a crack rock and said, “How else could it have been?”
I am having a hard time being clear-headed enough for long enough to write anything or tell anyone anything in any kind of detail. There has been way too much input. When I get out of the car in a new place (we are in Minneapolis right now) it takes me an hour to change gears and go through the hyper-awareness familiarization routine once again. I can’t drive once we get close to a place. In Madison (Chicago?) my eyelid started twitching.
We’re at the apex of the tour arc. I think we drove 1400 miles. Tomorrow is the start of the return trip. When I get back, I will cook myself the most luxurious dinner, drink a gallon of water, take two back to back showers and sleep for thirty six hours with breaks in which I go to my job.
I am a housekeeper. On a normal day I clean four showers, eleven toilets and twelve sinks. I mop four different floors, take out around fifteen trashcans and wipe off four mirrors. Sometimes I vacuum. I usually make at least two beds but once it was something like thirty. I will do anything else anyone asks me to do. When I was in third grade I started doing all of these same things for my dad, for $2 an hour. I think I maxed out with him around $4.50 by the time I was in eighth.
At Version there was an art installation that you could go into, a back to the womb thing. It was a huge air-filled tyvec tent that you got into by crawling through fifteen feet of the most claustrophobic dirty plastic imaginable. Inside there were markers for writing on the walls and a couch. We spent all night in there.
I am mute and I can drink more whiskey and beer than anyone would ever believe. I can’t even begin talking about this shit until we get back.