A Dog To Prove It

I am on my fast and cleanse, now, having arrived at it by circumstance.
I just wasn't hungry this morning, and only took coffee at The Coffee Club.
This should help me to overcome the temptations, as I contemplate going to New Orleans.
I soon will walk the two miles to the Winn Dixie, to buy prune juice (the official start of the procedure, according to Dr. Christopher,) and a gallon of apple juice. A gallon per day, it will be, for the next three days.
The past three days have been forgettable, and so, I have gone ahead and forgotten much of them.
I remember that, Friday night, I didn't play at all. I had walked around all day, and had little to drink, and I think that I was dehydrated. I lied down early, and was up several times throughout the night, to refill my water bottle and guzzle it down.
Saturday night, I played, and did relatively well -relative to Mobile- but, as the night wore on, and the partying got more frenzied, and the music poured out of the clubs, and I was on my third Earthquake Lager, I didn't feel like playing any more. There is something missing and/or wrong here, after midnight in Mobile. I can't quantify it, but I hate playing late, when only the young gangsters are milling about. It just isn't fun for me.
I felt that I would have had a hard time finding a spot where it would be quiet enough for me to be heard by anyone who wasn't squatting down in front of me, and I wasn't in the mood to seek tips visually, as in, people throwing me a couple bucks because they SEE me playing and appreciate the fact that I am doing something, or whatever is the logic exercised by people who throw tips, even though they can't hear you.
I guess I have been spoiled by playing in the coffee house, where there is a microphone, and people have their ears tuned to the lyrics and music.
I stood there, on Dauphin Street, looking at the long line of people who seemed willing to wait an hour to get into Club 5' 4." The music spilling out of the front door of the place sounded like the music spilling out of the windows of the cars riding by. I couldn't imagine wanting to "socialize," so badly, in the setting of Club 5' 4," as to be willing to wait in that line so long. I couldn't motivate myself to want to try to play for the people who would ultimately come spilling out of the place. I wasn't feeling it.
So, today; out of money; I embark upon Dr. Christopher"s fast and cleanse and mucous free diet.
A Girl Named Korrie
Last night, I was going into the Exxon, to get an Earthquake Lager, when, a girl approached me and told me that she had heard that I was very good on the guitar, and that she wanted to hear me play "when you feel like it." She was pretty. She seemed pretty drunk. She said that her name was Corey. I am not sure how she spells it, but, by the end of the night, after I had played for her and her friends, lured by Earthquake and cigarettes, I wouldn't have been surprised if she told me that she spelled it "Korrie," as, the similarities between her and a like-named girl became eerie, especially once the Earthquake began flowing, and uncanny, after more cans were consumed.
She invited me to camp with her and her friends, saying that they are like a family out there, and even have a dog to prove it. One of the guys is kind of like her boyfriend, I gathered. They said they have an extra tent set up which no one uses. I declined, and walked back to my spot.
I woke up pretty depressed, even though I had become a hero to Korrie and company, for playing certain songs, like "My Girl," by the Temptations, (or someone...)