so we shot ourselves into outerspace

Hitting 94 East towards St. Paul. Gotta visit St. Joe's. Need more skin grafts.
Get in the door. See the surgeon. He suggests a pre-surgery debridement. I think, cool. Cause that means morphine sulfate and percoset. It's how I originally met Bigfoot. After a CAT scan  in Phoenix, I used my hospital-drug-induced imagination to shape-shift. Into a splinter-cat. Right outside of Vancouver, BC. I guess it's raining in Vancouver, but I don't give a fuck. I'm coming home tonight.

In Vancouver,  my favorite writer, already dead, introduced me to Washington Weelford. A Canadian Bigfoot. He gave me a screech owl and a pine cone. We consumed edible roots and fermented chokecherries.

Then me and Washington shot ourselves into outerspace. I'm not sure whether I ever came back.

PS: The writer's name is David Foster Wallace. RIP David.