Feb 27
I'm steppin' into the Twilight Zone
Place is a madhouse
Feels like being cloned
My beacons been moved
Under moon and star
Where am I to go now that I've gone too far?
When is the last time I ate? I’m not even hungry. Cigs coffee and a schedule full of constant on the go will make this happen.
Our body bulking friends and get-big addicted comrades will scoff at the mere idea of self starvation. They’ll never know the wildness. The madness of mental clarity that comes from getting so lost in the sauce you forget to eat.
“Fasting” no. It’s not glamorous or religious now. I used to disguise it as this. An ‘Ether fast,’ or a day or two free of consumption to deepen my relationship with God. It’s not that now. The Word, The Bible, strong prayer, and nearly painstakingly silent moments are the only way for me to do that. Now it’s just the normal.
36 hours ago.
Yeah that sounds right.
Saturday morning around Sunrise East Coast time. I pulled to Biscuitville for a spicy chicken and honey biscuit. I was already delirious. Things intensified at the drive thru when a tiny mouse scurried across the rocks under the intercom and menu. What a doozie. It’s hard to enjoy your food with this image so recently in your head. I ate my biscuit. Too woozy to care that maybe this same mouse and his cohorts had a rodent orgie on my frozen ingredients. Possibly mere hours before eating. I’m past the point of caring.
Sunrise has became my bookend of the day. Sleeping from 8-3pm. Working, Writing, Playing, Lifting from 4pm-7am.
Hours before the rat biscuit, around 10pm, I found myself at a dive bar on the outskirts of tow. There was a ‘private’ ‘party’ upstairs that we’d been invited to. Everyone was loose. Old friends and people that had seemingly disappeared. Jolted. Nostalgia is a powerful energizer. I saw faces I hadn’t seen since 2016. Eerily similar looking. I must be the same way. 7 years past but my physical shell resembling same old Winston.
Two shots of crown, two whiskey gingers, and a sangria slushie that some girl bought for me later (disgustingly sweet, but the sugar energy fought drowsiness) the night was getting-to-that-point. Where you can back out or buckle up. The Real ones have all been there.
Hours before I’d locked in a good friend to contribute to my upcoming editorial as a political commentator. Young 20s, a best friend, passionate about poking the bear, fringe ideas. He is, on paper, the perfect type of writer I need. Even more reassuring was that I didn’t come to him. Enthusiastically, he came to me, wanting to be an early investor and contributor. Greenlight.
Now the energy is skyrocketing.
Drunken men at the top of an out of town dive bar plotting the design, content, and approach for our local editorial. Usually, in these brainstorms, I don’t talk. It’s best to hear what other people are ‘interested in’ or ‘recommending’ then I can create material around this since it is, in truth, what our ‘target audience’ to use a dorky marketing term, would be interested in.
EDIT: I’ll correct this, actually. It’s like that for a bit, until I get loose, going on tangents about our influence, the cultural direction, how We’re the voice, making up 33% of the voting population and nearly screaming the cold blooded fact that Bag of Bones politicians need to fear the power of the upcoming Generation. You know, the usual cult leaderesque monologues.
In the bouts of one of these lively talks, a girl sat near me, scooting closer, doing that flip-hair-expose-neck shit that Women do to subliminally signal they’re open to your approach.
I laugh every time I see this. Very cute and innocent female tactic.
Her Aesthetic straight of the 70s: Tweed blazer, possibly a mens, bell bottom jeans over boots similar to Doc Martins but more worn in, authentic. Strawberry blonde hair with bangs encroaching on her eyebrows. Not my ‘type’ if God granted me the ability to build my ideal women, but still beautiful and likely to make some Man real happy one day.
The lights in this place were not doing the scene justice.
Suffocatingly fluorescent.
Bright enough to see the rogue, scraggly parts of some Mens facial hair and where the make up layers meet on a Women’s face and neck. The music was early 2000s pop rap. Imagine Low- Flo Rida. Everything in my being was Flaring up, the inspiring conversations, beautiful women, flowing drink, hole in the wall energy. A cigarette was needed before I bursted into full blown positive mania.
I step outside alone. Dark Blue pack of spirits whispering my Name “winston….winston….smoke us……” from my pockets. Don’t you worry baby. That’s why I’m outside under the clear sky.
“Do you mind company?” I peak over my shoulder. It’s the 70s chick. No, I don’t mind. I hand her a stogie, light it. We talk about music, I tell her I’m in a 1980s Punk phase. Iggy pop, Talking Heads, anything played at CBGB in New York circa 70s. (Check out this place. Spawned Punk Magazine, who’s editorial attitude I’m adopting into my own publication.)
She swoons. Shows my her phone background. It’s David Bowie. I can’t help but laugh, what are the odds. We hit it off. Outside, listening to old punk music, tension rising. I go inside because I was dripped down in a plain white T shirt in 40degree weather and the chill got to me. I wanted warm arm, warm whiskey, and to get back to my Team. She follows, buys me a Sangria Slushie.
Next thing I know I’m driving her car.
90mph around country curves.
Deep inhaling my spirit.
Bowies’ Black Country Rock at ear piercing volume.
The no seat belt alert is simultaneously screaming at me since she’s unbuckled, leaning over the middle console giving me road head.
Time froze. I zone back in. I soak it up. I live on the Dark Side of The American Dream.
Now to remind U:
I write this consciously. Knowing it may fall short on your moral expectations of someone with a following and audience who listens and imitates. To that: Fuck You. I’m (proudly) no role model or goal to chase after. I live for Fire. For starting trouble. Causing scenes. Antagonizing the Normal just so I have something Exciting to experience. Better Men than me exist. But these stories, even the ones from pure, wholesome daylight hours, are representations of my life: What I’m seeing, feeling, tasting as I travel the road of Time. These experiences create Me. In true fairness of web2.0, that’s what I feel I want to publish: Honest stories, regardless if they’d make the Church Cringe or your mommy squeal. Always remember you can subscribe to my Patreon for more actionable, intellectual, content. (And here you can request material)
!!!
Will be spending the rest of the day preparing a meal/recipe for my great friend Rockys upcoming cook book. Follow his instagram here and twitter here. I vouch heavily for this Man and on my next ‘creator highlight’ short piece I’ll focus on brother Rock. He made the promo video for my Aesthetic Archetypes, from the kindness of his heart, when he didn’t need to. I’m always grateful for him and believe his Cookbook (along with great healthy meals) will also be a POWERFUL stepping stone to introducing the dangers of seed oils, mass agriculture, to the normies. Stay tuned, frens.
Reach out below
(sorry for not getting back to emails, send another!)
Much Love,
Winston
Souled Idea
Dr. Of The Night
The Most Reckless Doing It
