I was thrown out on the street by a trio of tough guys.  My shirt was soaked with alcohol sweat.  My hair was disheveled.  My body reeked of sex, rum and roses.  I slept on the street for two or three hours and was gently awakened by the light rain coming down on my face.

The aroma of sex, rum and roses came over me this afternoon as I washed my hair.  I don’t know if my conditioner smells like those three things (which would make it the greatest conditioner ever) or if my mind was just playing tricks on me.  I am, as you well know, suffering from head trauma and a lingering psychedelic drug experience.  Maybe I miss Mexico.  Mexico is my homeland and I yearn to speak Spanish.  Three days in Mexico and twelve shots of any hard liquor makes me fluent in the traditional tongue.  It’s all about the tongue.  You can ask Julia, Estella, Carmen or Amanda about that.  I pulled those names out of the air.  I don’t know their names, really.  It was all about the random hook-ups and sauntering off to secluded dark rooms for fornication and other wanton expressions of lust and youth.  Oh, to be eighteen and in Mexico!  Seventeen!  I was seventeen!  Just a boy.  A thin boy with a full head of hair and new clothes.  I still wear those same clothes today and they strain and sag on my inflated body.

Time is a fierce adversary.  Time has shredded and stomped this weary writer into a broke down loser.  Sic transit gloria, my dear friends.  The only solace is found in memory and in the off chance that I may smell the aroma, perhaps one more time, of sex, rum and roses.

Ojala.

Original post by causticj36