Wine, Wenches, and Word Vomit

A chaotic, booze-fueled spiral of thoughts, ridicule, and surreal late-night revelations.

She lights a smoke, contemplating the words about to possess this blank page. Her fingers fumble with the lighter—beer coursing through her once-sober veins like wildfire. The flame finally catches, illuminating her face in flickers of orange.



She belches toward the snoring beast sprawled on the floor, a heap of limbs and oblivion. Laughter erupts from two directions—sharp, mocking, feminine. The laughing wenches sit with similar agendas: compute, compute until the screen becomes unbearable. Or until you're sleepy.



Ridicule follows. Glances dart between them, contemptuous laughter trailing close behind. She’s belittled by statements about who she should be.



“It’s ka-ka,” one of the screaming wenches repeats like a broken record. Then the computing system chimes in, cold and mechanical: You cannot spell.



“You cannot,” bellows the other.



Another belch aimed at the snoring beast. “I need a beer,” says the subject of contempt.



After a refill—wine, soda, beer—she returns to her seat, determined to complete her thoughts. But nothingness surrounds her. The gloom presses in, thick and suffocating, like a dark, descriptive thing with no name.



She attempts writing with her nose, hoping it might spark something meaningful. It does not.



She’s odd and uncultured. Or maybe not. She reads her horoscope and feels pretzelized by the word—twisted, tangled, emotionally contorted. All the while, thinking Jason’s sexy.



Coughing, drinking, and smoking go hand in mouth with this group. The mention of Dutch Rudders sends them into fits of giggles, like schoolboys discovering forbidden knowledge.



“Damn!” she proclaims. “That’s a good sentence.”



She takes a swig of beer and thinks about the snot in her nose. “I should blow that,” she says.



“All done. That was quick.”



She finds herself explaining the situation to a young, bucking male who has herpes. He’s not ashamed. Not even a little.



She thinks of tomorrow—when her evil sister from France will intrude on the light-hearted laughter. That thought leads to Morris Day and The Time. Jungle Love. Which leads to Jason Mewes. Which leads to Porno.



The herpes-infected male makes her realize: she’s schizo. She takes another swig, thinking she’s sad in the pants.



“Sad sack!” screeches the wine wench.



“You’re a poor sad sack,” states the creamy soda wench.



“I am not!” yells the writer of this shit.



And in the background, behind the battlefield, the infested sack of mucus-herpes screams like nothing matters: “Napoleon!”



The wine wench wants promises and demands. She wants to be told she’s wrong. Love, to her, is no battlefield.



Or maybe it is.