I Am The Reno Christ

Inhumanely hot car interior. Must get out.

I fall on Nevada dust, hoping for a fresh breeze to reverse a surge of gastricky vomit. My composure implodes and I am weak, doggie-style, palms down, pushing roasting desert dust a few millimetres closer to the earth's core. Problem is, the earth's core seems closer to the surface round here.

Mental note to self: sandy dust is actually ginger hues and soft as icing sugar. No cool breeze but dry air does blow fine soil over me. This is the desert beginning to digest me in it's own Cajun seasoning. The desert wants me a baked Englishman, and is coating my dripping palms and forearms. I look like a performance artist.

Ten seconds pass, then I realise that on my dizzy way down to the dizzy dust, I had headbutted a massive cactus and three cactus spikes are now squewered into my forehead, blood streaming all down my face, all Jesus-in-thorns-like.

I really do look like a performance artist now, a good one, too! One who really means it. He'll sweat blood and guts for his art. Well, here's the blood, dripping either side of my nose all red tears, but where's the gu- oh, here it comes. The brown dusty powder-soil and a waterfall of my own sick coalesce to form a revolting soil-y scrambled egg. My vomit. DNA discharge just outside Reno city limits. That'll teach the fucking cactus.

It's cool though, as I've already made my mark on this place. I should really take a picture. A real artist would.