Other words for strange
~Hunter S. Thompson
I’VE SPENT the final two days, approximately, caught within the jaws of some type of God-forsaken plague. As I suffered a wracking cough, the continual expulsion of varied effluvia, alternating periods of insomnia and shallow coma, along with a persistent headache that even opioids wouldn’t cut, I searched for whatever meager relief I possibly could in distraction. This mostly involved listening to numerous audio, that was easily accessible from whatever contorted leaning, laying, or curled position I discovered myself in. When necessity determined which i be hellishly upright, I attempted to see.
I finished it on revolutionary messianism that I’d been dealing with, after which got lost in watching shadows crawl around, and also the vagaries of YouTube.
Look, I stated I had been ill, ok?
Late one evening, as i was trying to not wake the home using the pitiful noises of my suffering, I numbly shuffled the pile of books waiting to become read, and switched up one I’d designed to read for review. Foreseeing it had become a dreadful time for you to think about the merits of someone’s work, I began reading through it, anyway.
May as well spread the romance around.
Looking back, being uncomfortable, irritable, and fairly simple at the time of the hallucinatory bout rest-madness was the right condition to crack the coverage of Victor D. Lorthos’ . Reading through through this assortment of poetry and short tales is greatly similar to restlessly flipping the channels of someone’s fever dreams.
The writer describes themself as “a drinker having a writing problem, ” which, of course, set the bar pretty low, so far as my anticipation were concerned. The outlet handful of pieces appeared to verify individuals anticipation, having a poem addressing the frequently awkward facts from the sex act, along with a Hunter Thompson-esque yarn in regards to a coffee-fueled drive from Nevada to Tennessee, that involved the apocalyptic defilement of the truck stop bathroom.