Dignity is Overrated


Inebriation and debauchery only can satiate me for so long before I need to resort to the surging thrill of intellect. The statement itself sounds backward, dyslexic. It’s true though. Maybe the emotional faculties of by brain are just too dulled, too desensitized to be aroused, but there’s something about that frontal cortex, that electric cognition of new knowledge, enthralling discovery and innovation of ideas that enraptures me in a way that no substance abuse or traumas of jaded lovers could ever compare to.

I can hear the hum of the florescent lighting over the throbbing of my pulse. The floor tiles feel cool on my face but the sweat I seem to be drenched in is making my skin stick. My throat’s dry. I taste blood in my mouth. I’m not sure if it’s my own or if it belongs to someone else. I try to swallow and immediately feel the pain as my tongue moves ever so slightly. Apparently I bit down on it pretty hard. Must be my own blood then, I guess. I should try to open my eyes. They’re partially crusted over from dried tears and mucus. The light stings as my pupils constrict to accommodate the barbaric sensory overload causing my tear ducts to spit acid and mascara over my cornea again. It burns me blind for a few more seconds before my vision becomes coherent. I roll onto my side and try to lift my head. Rocks. Sharp jagged edges in my skull. Not yet I guess. I rest my head on the floor again and direct my gaze to the drafty air prickling against the lower half of my body. My clothes are missing. These things happen, I suppose. I can only hope it was worth it for whoever it was. Nauseas. I need to vomit.

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