Dirty as Fuck

So it’s another night on acid or maybe mushrooms or possibly you just took a whole shitload of effedrin, but whatever it is you’ve ingested had made you sweat incredibly. You are a fucking filthy girl, in the company of other incredibly dirty girls. You are generally happy this way. Your vintage dress is ripped and held tight with safety pins, your tights are sewn up at the crotch with leopard print, you are sitting on the floor because fuck those motherfucking chairs, ok.

Layers of grime surround your permanent jewellery: two inches of steel and silver necklaces, complicated by glass pendants, a miniature switchblade, skulls, safety pins and stamped coins bought in thruway rest stops. Your 15 bracelets are but nothing compared to your friend’s—she hasn’t taken her leather and silvered metal off in over a year and you commend her commitment to dirty punkness and decide never to take your jewellery off, either.

Except that this particular night of drugs and sweat has really made you disgusting. Rather that simply showering, you decide to explore the crusty black bits running down your neck by taking off your necklaces, and your friend does the same with her holy braceleted arm. After removing the five inches of leather straps and metal contraptions, her arm looks like it might have a problem. It looks smaller than the other, and distinctly paler. There is a bruised looking cut inflamed in the middle of her forearm, and most all the skin is greyed and flaky. This can’t be the result of failure to wash or failure of dirty punk ethics, no it must be cheap leather and the lack of nice stainless steel in your lives. Next time, you’ll both spend the extra four dollars for nice cuffs, but for now you get some alcohol for the arm and try to sleep. You can’t.

To be so high you forget your name and find a hateful boyfriend to screw, go here.
To be so high you decide to remove your glasses and drive around, go here.
To be so high you decide to write a song go here.