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Mental Diarrhea: Bangkok Insomnia Thoughts, Part 6

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I shifted in bed, sensed a stinging chill, a cold presence, and the hairs on the nape of my neck prickled. My eyes opened, mechanically, like automatic doors, and I saw that lying next to me lay a young Thai girl, maybe early 20ish. The girl was completely nude. She lay supine, and her protruding eyeballs were of an ungodly crimson-purple color, and her slim body, her golden skin was repaired in yantra tattoos.


The girl was sobbing and trembling. Then she screamed at the ceiling, bellowed out something in Isan dialect. Jolted aback, I jumped out of bed, and she immediately vanished.


It must be another hallucination. I can’t remember the last time I slept properly. I might even be dreaming that I’m awake. Or awake and wishing I was dreaming. It’s confusing, jarring, a jolt to the senses, these circadian disruptions. The whites of my walls appeared as tall as snow-capped mountains, and sudden schools of greenish floaters swam through my vision like flocks of fish.    


My ears popped. Then I yawned, sucked in a batch of pensive air, and cautiously crept back into the mothering warmth of the bed and lay atop the covers, flat on my back.


I wore only my Scooby Doo boxers.


I looked around, both ways, like I was about to cross the street, but I didn’t see the crying Thai ghost girl. Though I could feel that noticeable chill of an invisible presence again. It was strong too. Stronger than ever. It was as if the walls were no longer snow-capped mountains, and were instead cloudy, unblinking eyes of a leviathan.


My eyes felt like peepholes, like two cameras, so I shut my eyelids.


Spray-paint, street art visions cast across my psyche, animated graffiti visions of Eazy-E in a sea of flames. Eazy-E in sunspots, Eazy-E as a Greek God, Eazy-E atop Mount Everest, collecting solar flares with his sunglasses. Eazy-E in a diadem, floating over Compton like a ghost. Eazy-E flying like Superman, Eazy-E in a spectral cast of gold.


Then I cringed, witnessed Eazy-E lassoed and jerked down from the sky, gored by a syringe wielding Suge Knight. Suge Knight in a wolf gray, flat-brimmed Stetson hat. Suge Knight as a werewolf, Suge Knight howling at a full moon, Suge Knight’s eyes full of blood as he sadistically stabbed a crouching, crying Eazy-E.


Lizard <deleted> pumping through my arteries, I imagined Suge Knight being an offensive, violently peremptory <deleted>.


“Youse a penguin looking <deleted>,” the Dr. Dre song sounded in my mind.


I used to memorize gangsta rap song lyrics, sing them in the shower. Gangsta rap is the most authentic form of music, the only art that is real, the only art form that is true to itself, the only art that is pure, the only art that purports to be nothing other than what it is. Gangsta rap is the most quintessentially American music in that it unashamedly, unreservedly, unapologetically celebrates the pursuit of happiness... 

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