My brain was going at warp ten. Please don't shoot me, but I have been trying to do a burn out on this car. Sign up to receive The Atlanta Black Star Newsletter in your inbox. I exhaled for more hours. But your body is still constrained by the laws of biomechanics. I closed my eyes and lay there for hours and hours (10 minutes of reality time) before giving up. I spent what seemed like days on that fucking red-line train. I read a book. Just shoot me now, please. I did manage to hear a screaming baby on my subway car – her shrieks slowed to sound like whale songs. Sprinting down the street, dancing and weaving between pedestrians with, what must have looked to them, superhuman dexterity. Shoot me in the temple, aiming slightly downwards. That’s how I managed to read three magazines and the first thirty chapters of Moby Dick in fifteen minutes. Ten minutes had passed. Drop it.”. Moments later, the officer and his partner opened fire as Udofia collapsed to the ground. chirped Squirrel Scout Denmother Jane Doe into her pastel pink telephone, twisting the cord around her fingers as she spoke. Another hour. The gun later proved to be a BB gun. Based on how long it took the book to drift to the floor, I estimated the effects of the drug were still intensifying. Atlanta Black Star is a narrative company. Hard. That was the message inscribed on the right side of the screen in the opening shot of episode 6 of The Leftovers, titled "Guest. I had basically turned into giant, slow-motion spaz. I’ve lived hundreds of lifespans at the foot of this bench. This meant I could use the speed things seemed to fall as a way of judging the effects of the drug. The laws of physics were the same. I crawled a few feet to a concrete bench and curled up next to it, trying to find a position to lessen the pain in my shoulder. All that existed was the pain from my fall. A faint glow. Yesterday started out at around 8:30 AM and ended at 7 PM, no lunch, just going from dealer to dealer. As accelerated as my brain was, I couldn’t do anything to make my legs work faster. The brunet helpfully supplied. Moments later, Udofia could be seen on video raising up off the ground and pointing the toy gun at officers. I picked up the book I was reading – One Hundred Years of Solitude – and finished it. The dull roar of the street and metro noise ceased, replaced by the most perfect silence I’ve ever experienced. Forty-five minutes maybe. Make it a headshot. Or at least something to knock me out until it wore off. I need the bullet to travel the shortest possible distance through my brain before it hits my hippocampus. Whether you’re graduating school, getting engaged, throwing a wedding, celebrating a growing family, I want your personality to shine through your pictures. That’s when the Ambien hit me. The book slowly pirouetted and spun through the air, like a leaf blowing in a breeze. Someone on this platform right now. An internal police department investigation is underway. If you’re armed and at the Glenmont metro, please shoot me. I don’t want to be the latest Midtown crime statistic. “Please! Hours of increasing strain on my bent ankle. Weeks of effort were finally rewarded with success – I stabilized on my hands and knees. Iggy Pop, Richard Hell, the Ramones, and scores of other punk figures lend their voices to this decisive account of that explosive era. I need the bullet to travel the shortest possible distance through my brain before it hits my hippocampus. A project that spanned decades. The dumb looks on the faces in the crowd lingered on me for weeks. Just Shoot Me! “Please drop the gun, dude,” the officer said. The pressure grew, bringing increasing pain, for hour upon hour. Days of my dislocated shoulder crying for relief. 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