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Mayo de Vida

Thursday, June 16, 2011

I just called and spent a half hour on the phone to have my gas turned off to avoid writing.  What a fucking joke.  Distractions like this are actualized as a result of grappling with how to most acutely relay the past month’s rocky events concisely and not in list format.  Also, my computer’s internal hard drive crapped out on me, a fright which has rendered me useless for anything other than looking at pictures of girls who I don’t know on Facebook that I wish I looked like.  After, just now, spending ten minutes with one bathroom break trying to find the WordPress Admin log-in url again since all of my fucking bookmarks are rotting away on my old piece of shoddy hardware, and feeling maladjusted from last night’s alcohol, drugs, and shame that has stupefied my brain to be no better, or worse, than a 36 year aged pork steeping in a pool of blood, I summarize my month:

- I unknowingly disinherited my wallet, while sober, resulting in having to get a new I.D. which features a picture of myself that undeniably belongs on “Faces of Meth”

- misplaced a useful pair tweezers which is unfortunate because, after spending much of 17 on meth, I have acquired hair-plucking as one of my less provocative past times

- boozed so heavily during the five hours I spent at a friend’s birthday party that I puked outside of my subway station when I got home, in broad daylight, and in front of strangers, an act I haven’t had the horror of partaking in in  several years (1 margarita, four 12oz Budweiser’s, three shots of tequila, two tallboys, shot of whiskey)

- participated in a spectacle of an argument with my roommate on the train at 10AM on a Saturday which has produced a severe scar of a bite mark on my back and several scowls from onlookers that I won’t soon forget

- lost Jazz to eviction, gained a crackhead who now follows me around in the streets

- lost my roommate to maniacal twenty-something behaviors, gained an example to compare myself to when attempting to heighten my own self-worth

- found a new apartment where I won’t have to babysit roommates or, hopefully, crackheads, anymore

- learned how to walk in high heels

- ate a shit ton of sandwiches

The soundtrack to this clusterfuck of a month has truly been the sole bright side, and I admit to liking this mixture of music, listened to as a whole, maybe too much. Beginning with The Spiders “Now”, this band can be authentically found under the name “Los Spiders”.  This is some real divine bluesy Mexican psychedelic.  This song particularly contends for my affection with lyrics like “Now that I’m lonely/now that I’m only waitin’/ for someone like you, babe/Don’t ask me who babe cause/I’ll make it easy/I’ll make it less than nothing” and a keyboard-filled center that makes my heart cum.

While medleys are inherently vile, “Punk Rock Medley” may have momentarily redeemed the concept for me.. or bastardized it so much that it did a 180 and some how came out rocking.   Either way, it’s comical how disco these songs sound mashed up together like this. Medley samples songs like Buzzcocks “Boredom,” “New Rose” by The Damned (touring soon, for anyone who gives a shit), the crimson crooning of Paul Weller in The Jam’s “In The City” and the grind of The Clash’s “Career Opportunities” among a few others.  Get out a fog machine and a strobe light, put this on, and have a fat three minute and forty seven second rave.

The New Christy Minstrels “Ride, Ride, Ride” proves, to me, that these TEN band members and their notorious squeaky clean, folk-playing, square-bear image couldn’t be further from actuality.  In most of the songs I’ve heard by them, they’re rambling on about gambling and being a cowboy.  Plus, one of these dudes sings like he’s got a pack of cigarettes jammed in his throat that he’s washing down with whiskey between takes.  Also, I’m from Reno and know a lot about gambling, being a cowboy, and washing down cigarettes with whiskey, so I’m calling bullshit and fingering these folk as the original bad asses.

Other exciting gems:

Bo Diddley – “Untitled Instrumental”  is basically like walking under a bunch of trees with an ice cream cone.

Harlem – “Someday Soon” is a great song to be drunk and hopping around on all of your furniture to.  How the tempo increases is especially thrilling and automatically engages more jumping.

El Ten Eleven – “I Like Van Halen Because My Sister Says They Are Cool” is just one song by this instrumental duo who successfully avoid that foul masturbatory state of many instrumental bands and is concocted with just the bare essentials.  Sick like dick.

The Attack – “High Ho Silver Lining” was released before the Jeff Beck version and it’s way better.  All you need to know.

Jacqueline Taieb – “Bravo” is a tune that I’m compelled to say crushes every song France Gall ever recorded, but that probably isn’t entirely accurate.  If you like French pop, and French girls, you can listen to this and imagine this hot bitch boxing Gall and beating the shit out that twit because that’s Jacqueline’s swag, mostly because of the horn section.

X-Ray Spex – “Germfree Adolescents/I Live Off You” Lead singer Poly Styrene croaked this past month and, despite rounding out her life as a Hare Krishna, she really used to be unabashedly unhinged and punk rock was undoubtedly brutally influenced by the presence of her and this band.  RIP.

Big Star – “My Life Is Right” is just one of the many songs in their slim catalogue that all of your college rock jangly pop favorites jacked off to.  Big Star is easily the greatest little-known band with the most pull on the rock world.  Pick any song by this outfit, you can’t go wrong.

Chris Bell – “Look Up” doesn’t make me believe in a “higher power” but does instill lifelong dedication to the melodies of Chris Bell and this lone solo album crafted outside of his work with Big Star before his untimely demise.  I hear this song and my indifference to life or death becomes a little lighter.

Causey Way – “Light Of The World” rapes with synths straight out of “Rock Lobster” that were played while these weirdos wore church robes and acted like a cult.  With a brashness that puts bands like Liars to shame, I will give five dollars to the person who can tell me the name of even one member of this band.

Dr. John – “Danse Kalinda Ba Doom” is like listening to an instrumental version of the movie Sysperia if it took place in a jungle.  Implements exotic instruments and creepy background vocals that ignite the sensation that you’re about to be hog tied and grilled up over an open flame with an apple in your mouth.

Jarvis Cocker – “Black Magic” basically samples the guitar riff from Tommy James & The Shondells “Crimson & Clover” for five minutes but Jarvis Cocker could basically take a shit on a CD and I would frame it right up.  So there’s that..

The Skeletons – “Little Bit O’Soul” is a live version of the hit by The Music Explosion played by a band I know nothing about.  I ache to be there, in 1979, desperately because of it.  And the guy who responds “MONEY!” when the singer states, “Here’s what it takes to get on in this old world” is classic.  Maybe that’s where my wallet went..

 

 

*If someone would like to explain to me in a calm and rational manner how I might upload a .zip file of these mixes to include in these entries for your listening delight, I am more than willing to educate myself to help you do the same.

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30% Off Push-Up Bras *Whites Only*

Friday, May 6, 2011

There was a cretin in my apartment the other week. It was arresting to find that, many of the things I abhor most in this world-nudists, retail associates, unmindful racists, morons, acne scars. STD’s, freelance stylists of any kind- could be packaged so neatly within a nineteen year old NYC immigrant from Georgia that my roommate was recently fucking. I met her at 5AM two Fridays ago when they arrived at the apartment specifically because I went all Boardwalk Empire on him on the phone over his being two weeks late on rent and demanded he return immediately to pay me. It went something like, “Did I actually need the money today? How about this: yes I needed the money today and you want to know why? IT’S MY FUCKING MONEY, THAT’S WHY. DOES THAT WORK FOR YOU?”

His tag-along emitted the unmistakable odor of “body spray” & had two large tote bags, one of which contained a blow dryer that alarmed me pertaining to the duration of her stay.

Without hesitation, my roommate left me alone in the room with her so he could go sweep the Gold Bond off of his floor and then fabricate my dog’s bed into a glorified human sleeping arrangement. She was quite animated upon her first utterance and took off her clothes without warning, which I later learned was an outcome of the adventure her and my roommate had had snorting part of a bag of drugs they found on 110th street, assuming it was cocaine. It was meth.

Being unaccustomed with this form of ineptitude, the novelty of her presence was accepted. After a benevolent reception of her aspirations of Victoria Secret management followed by respectfully explaining to her that a partition that separates a room is never referred to as a “bidet,” we had reached that crux where she felt bonded enough with me to commiserate about the sinister side of her Georgian upbringing.

“My daddy’s racist but I’m not. I have nothing against black people. I think halfy babies- you know, like half black and half white- are some of the most beautiful babies ever. My dad doesn’t think that people should mix though. He once said to me that he would rather have me bring home a girl than a black guy.”

“Wow, that’s pretty racist,” I noted, perceiving firmly that this conversation had rapidly become ill-fitted for both my opinion and the hour. I hadn’t had to humor someone who was dumb and nineteen since I was… dumb and nineteen.

“Well years later, I said to him, ‘What if I bring home a black girl?” a line she stated, seemingly rehearsed. while she giggled at her own coyness.

“Yeah, wow,” I managed. My roommate reentered the room and sat on the couch. He opened up my laptop to pen what I would soon find in my Facebook inbox: “you look like you like her. do you like her? i really like her! woot! i’m going to get down tonight! Sorry for waking you up.”

“But it’s not that he hates people with black skin,” she continued. “Because there’s a difference between black people, not just with dark skin, but like, ‘niggers’, you know. It’s ‘niggers’ he doesn’t like.”

This is the type of shit I have only witnessed on Youtube. Since I usually associate with people I know, and since people I know aren’t blatantly racist, this is not a situation I am often confronted with, especially in my own home, at the crack of dawn, surrounded by the smell of coconut and Lily From The Valley from someone whose breasts I had just unwillingly seen.

“Well, that’s one way of looking at it,” I said, with restraint, beginning to get nervous at the volume she was delivering racial slurs. She must have taken my disquieted reaction as confusion for she was driven to make further comment.

“Oh, yeah, I mean I love hearing different opinions, that’s why I’m in NYC. Maybe it has to do with the way I was raised,” she advocated for this aversion assuredly. “But I mean, what he’s saying, it’s not about people with black skin..” She rubbed her wrist as she said this, as though that would appeal the point to me and I’d adopt a clarity of prejudice.

Stoically, I asserted, “No, I understood what your racist dad was trying to say the first time you said it. What I’m telling you is that I disagree.”

Despite telling my roommate the next day that I was at a paramount refusal to endure any more of her company, he dated “The Racist” for one week longer. I was quieted with promises of a first-class discount on extraordinary quantities of Victoria Secret crap undergarments. During that final week, my roommate attempted to explain to this Jezebel the difference between being prejudiced and racist and, after her rebutting with, “But they are different… their noses..”, informed her that she was, indeed, both. The first “last straw” of their romance came when he gave her “Siddhartha” to read and she asked, “Is this fiction or non-fiction?” With the response of “fiction” came, “So this really happened?” The second hit when he found his skull a fraction away from the bumper of a cab that she drunkenly pushed him in front of after throwing said copy of “Siddhartha” in the street. “I stole that from the Anchorage Municipal Public Library, that cunt!” he yelled to me over the phone. The kicker was when he found out she gave him an STD.

I am no lover of human kind, quite the opposite. I boil over with misanthropy, thus avoiding the accusation of being prejudice in any regard because I inherently dislike everyone. Though, negligently having convictions, especially distasteful ones, is something that injects me with a foreign malice that made me want to shame this girl specifically into reforming her boorish mind. Despite my instinctive uproar at this situation, I find myself now reverting back to my own egotism. It is not my burden to disgrace this young woman into resolving to not be inadvertently bigoted; nor will I gift her heedless judgment with the benefit of the doubt of falling victim to being raised by a stupid hick.

As humans with brains, some smaller than others, it is disastrously up to us as individuals to make choices on our own and to hopefully be evolved enough to want to be educated, or intentionally not, when doing so. She, quite apparently, is unequipped to do that. While I often hold people accountable for their ridiculous thoughts and opinions that they draft from all sorts of garbage, it almost seems as ignorant to do so in this situation as it is for her to blindly trust what she does in the first place.

I could choose to allot hate for her for being careless with her mind and life though she is obviously already doomed. Her future aspirations coupled with these past weeks actions are merely a series of bad decisions in a life that has been, and will predictably be, full of them. I could choose to berate my roommate incessantly until it instills the will in him to not pick women based exclusively on the quality of sex he has with them and to always wear a condom. I could also choose to malevolently castigate his decision to put his unmasked dick into a loose racist woman that smells like a tropical island burning to the ground and I could waste time holding faith that that sophomoric decision will be the last of it’s kind. Yes, I could decide to needlessly criticize and hate but I guess I just expect more out of myself.

 

 

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Abril de Vida

Monday, May 2, 2011

*Disclaimer: These “monthly mixes”, if you will, are posted to chronologize what I spent most of any one given month listening to. These compilations are not put here for your enjoyment or judgment. However, while you are welcome to partake in both, I don’t give a shit if you like them or not and probably don’t want to hear about it. In fact, it is my hope that you dislike them immensley, thus further perpetuating me upon my ivory tower looking down on the rest of the world as ignorant, tasteless, and classless, especially when it comes to music. Furthermore, while I put minimal effort into molding the songs into a listenable order, in no way ought these playlists be a reflection of my mix making abilities which, by the way, are amazing. /end

April was a whatever month. I spent much time engaged with attempting to drown my self-induced sorrows and then feeling hateful for being such a pathetic pile. Thus audibly emerges a slight nostalgic throw-back to my angsty and conflicting punk rock days, beginning morosely with some British Invasion and mod rock following this guy you probably have never heard of, Paul Simon.

Despite hearing Paul Simon’s entire catalog three million times while at my job, I am quite taken with what his easily his best song, “My Little Town”. When I wasn’t fussing about that tune that ensued grandiose feelings of accomplishment when imagining the lack of success of peers from my formative years (my little town), I spent time sulking, which usually results in, what could be considered, a slight decline in taste. With the emergence of all of the reminiscent Cash For Chaos bands, I was able to nurture my fickle emotions of “love” versus “I am fed up and want to die” – a payoff from punk rock, the white man’s soul- and stormed around feeling almost as horribly carefree and menacing as I was as a teenager. I depleted many an alcohol-induced stumble home and morning shower feeling exceptionally mulish, crooning terribly at how unjustly life has done me wrong with Bobby Fuller’s “I Fought The Law”. This is the song I learned to play on bass this month as well and is now, coincidentally, the only song I know how to play on bass.

Other highlights include:

Elton John – “Amoreena” because it makes me hot and bothered while also making me feel sad

Motors – “Airport” has the old underlying theme of love lost, it is ultimately a song about the airport. Chorus sounds like they recruited Devo just to say “airport” over and over. Nice backing vocals. Hilarious.

The Hooligans – “Juanita Banana” because it’s the most obnoxious and fun song to sing in the shower and I love anything Mexican.

Southern Culture On The Skids – “Dance For Me” is country surf. Aka, psychobilly. Tasty psychobilly, get into me.

Arthur Russell – “See-Through” coupled with Jens Lekman – “Friday Night At The Drive-In Bingo” for that warm fuzzy feeling I can usually only bewitch with the assistance of several painkillers

Bootsy Collins – “Bootzilla” is pretty much the opposite of anything else I listened to all month and should be noted as such.

The Small Faces – “Afterglow of Your Love” as it was a left-over from last month’s mix and, with the punk rock, is a reflection of my teenage life and is some of the best “freak beat” ever.

J. Roddy & The Business – “I Don’t Wanna Hear It,” because no, I don’t want to hear about how drunk I was last night, how many curbs I pissed on, how much money I owe you, or why I am covered in bruises and splinters because the answer to all of the above is, I only am and I only like punk rock.

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Happy Easter From Flatbush

Sunday, April 24, 2011

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Crackheads Always Look Like They’ve Been Crying

Saturday, April 16, 2011

It’s endearing, in a way, when the most popular neighborhood druggie asks you if you are “holding”, which happened to me moments ago. Though, I’m not certain what his weapon of choice is, drawing from my own praxis, I am going to assume crack; potheads aren’t awake all night shuffling transsexuals in and out of their apartment building and monetarily stiffing them in the lobby. Nor are they incessantly buzzing their neighbor’s apartment when they lock themselves out at 3:36AM, 6:15AM, and 10:42AM. And meth isn’t really a thing in Flatbush.

Jazz is a prominent guy on the block, knows a lot of weird tricks, many of them visiting him at all hours, and it was unexpectedly enriching that he thought to look to me for a hook-up during a brief moment of good-natured discourse that began over our mutual fondness for corn chips of which he was consuming by the handful along with a brown-bagged beverage on our pitiful excuse for a “stoop”. It’s kind of exciting that he thought I, living here as a minority by being a young white female, could help him score crack in Flatbush. Almost as exciting as the other night when he thought to ask to borrow nine dollars from me, presumably for crack, and then asked me out.

When I entered the building, he was perspiring and appeared troubled as he trifled with the handle of the elevator door. I had left work keen on being surly because I had recently begun my monthly bleed, which generally results in feeling agitated over my entire life’s work, and had arranged to drink myself into a stupor. I’m unsure if Jazz’s urgent need for nine dollars in cash had anything to do with the transsexual who had been yelling in my lobby at 4AM a day prior about “wanting her fucking money” or else she was going to “fuck some shit up”, but I was not about to pay up for his blood diamond.

“Oh, no, sorry, man. I don’t have anything. I just paid rent,” I lied while I inched closer to my apartment door.
“Oh yeah? I could pay you back double tomorrow… How much you all pay in there?”

“You all” is referring to myself and my roommate- the one who refused to believe me when I confronted him on how his feet stank like hot garbage stewing inside of a bellybutton. This foot odor situation was so offensive that, when being accosted for money by Jazz, upon rejection, Jazz offered, “You know I’ve got a spray upstairs for that. I could go get it for you.” You know your feet fucking stink when a crackhead tells you they do. This same roommate is also completely ignorant to the fact people don’t give away free money, especially in Flatbush, and was enough of a stooge to have waited fifteen pitiful minutes outside of our building when Jazz offered to loan HIM ten dollars.

Jazz: Do you need some money?
Roommate: We all could use some money!
Jazz: How much you need?
Roommate: How about ten dollars?!
Jazz: Wait here.

“We pay $1200 for a one bedroom.”
“Ah. You all sleep in the same room?”
“Yeah..”

Which we do. Currently, my roommate and I sleep in the living room-I in my bed and he in the fetal position on the couch. Since I am not running a summer camp, I did not provide him with sleeping accommodations when he moved in and, since we have big dreams to move to an adult-sized apartment in a different black neighborhood this summer, it would be pointless to add on to the castle of furniture I already possess. When I come home loud and drunk at 4AM, and if he has to go lick balls on the upper-east-side at brunch the following morning, he sleeps on a dog bed next to a pile of clothes and some dead plants in the bedroom that love forgot that I used to share with one of my charming ex-boyfriends.

“…but it’s not like that. He’s like my brother.”

Letting the elevator door fall shut now, he stepped closer to me.

“Oh, so you two aren’t dating?”
“No.”
“Are you dating anyone?”
“No…”

In my purse was the bottle of wine that I had purchased with intent to consume immediately in entirety as another feeble attempt to forget about the guy I cannot have and to cope with the fact that I allow men I hate and men twice my age to kiss me because of it.

“So you’re, like, celibate?”

His jaundiced eyes reddened as they squared me under the fluorescent lights of the lobby. I feared that he was going to bag me up like Borat did to Pamela Anderson and haul me upstairs for some cracked out transsexual fun that I probably could have gotten into after that bottle of wine if I didn’t break it in self-defense first.

“Uh, basically, I guess,” I murmured, disappointed at being reminded that I’m embarking on another serious dry-spell.
Excitedly, he exclaimed, “Me too!”
“What? Really?”
“Yeah, I’m celibate. Been celibate eight years!”

Well holy shit.

“Well, wow. I’m proud of you, Jazz,” I said, amazed.
“Thanks!” then pausing, “Maybe you and I should get together..and do something sometime,” he suggested, as he re-opened the elevator door.

Despite the urge to remind him that he had just asked me to loan him nine dollars and to tell him that I don’t really date crackheads, I figured it was best to avoid outright rejection, though he might be used to it. It also might be hilarious to note that this is literally the second “date” that I have ever been asked on in my entire life. Entire. Life.

“Yeah, I dunno. That could get kind of complicated.”
Halfway in the elevator, he craned his neck and called out, in earnest, with a stiff nod, “Oh yeah? Well you could consider me a challenge!”

While I nearly always have pot, a minor arsenal of prescription medications, occasional psychedelics, and access to booze, a lot of which I drank that night, and while I have had the means to produce crack and have used illogical sums of drugs equally vile, no, Jazz, do I not now have nor will I ever likely be “holding” crack.

“Oh, uh, no, sorry. I don’t have anything on me.”
“Times are hard, Kat,” he murmured through a mouth full of corn chips followed by, “Want some?” as he held out the bag.

I thought about my bleeding vagina, my bleeding heart, the other night when it was shoved in my face that I will likely never have sex again but am still more of a whore than a crackhead, that I had been recently propositioned by a man who smells like corn chips and regularly uses crack, how I live in Flatbush and have for four years, the fact I had just been asked if i had crack, the possibility that I suddenly wanted some,.

“No thanks and, yeah, you’re telling me. A bit of a dry spell around here,” I concurred, pretending to know what it is that he is genuinely looking for.
“Most definitely,” he agreed.

I turned to walk away but glanced back, “At least there’s always alcohol.”

The light of the moon cast a wet undertone in his eyes as he grinned dolefully, raised his brown paper glass, then cried out to me, “Thank God for that!” and took a sip from his straw.

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Lame

Monday, April 11, 2011

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Come on, Flatbush. Why can’t you leave something useful like soap or painkillers? I know you can do better than that. I’ve SEEN you do better than that. Don’t give me this fucking garbage.

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Oh Crap.

Thursday, March 31, 2011

I almost shit myself on the way home from work again. As you can imagine, after last time, the possibility of that it entirely terrorizing.

The attack originated while I was still at my job and, therefore, able to disperse the initial bout during a ten minute period of holding up the restroom from paying customers. However, if history has taught me something, it is that was just the beginning. Now in fear of departing for home, I was wayfaring around the restaurant for a half hour, not drinking, and off the clock. Refusing to pay $12 to take a car home just because my bowels were holding me hostage, I set off to my apartment, this time armed with a roll of toilet paper in my bag.

My insides began stirring after I had climbed the three stories of stairs required to reach the subway platform. While trying to determine whether I should go back to work or not, a gentleman who is employed at the tapas bar next door to my job ascended the staircase and conversation ensued. Trying to exchange pleasant discourse with an enthusiastic foreigner while mentally pleading with your insides is not the easiest duo of operations to complete. Fortunately, he and I only had to ride one stop together so I got to spend the rest of my time on the subway feeling my stomach assault me.

Once off the train, I hi-tailed it for home. I applauded myself as I passed the checkpoint of where I had pooped my pants last time. While walking quickly rocked my innards, I knew that if I hesitated, worse could happen. Abandoned dog turds mocked me from the sidewalk as I pressed on. I only had around eight blocks to go when it began to rain, this hard-hearted universe snickering at me for waiting that extra half hour at work. The bright side, I thought, would be that, in the event I did soil myself again, this time I could just disrobe in the street and let the pure rain water baptize my contaminated body as I careened down the road wildly.

When I had a mere four blocks left to go, what was left in my system was raking my insides. I realized how demoralizing it would be to fail at this juncture. Though, at least it would only be four blocks of manure misery. I made it home with mere seconds to spare. I stripped while finishing the job, as I was quite heated from both the power walk and intense fear. Appraising that the magnitude of destruction wouldn’t have been nearly as grotesque as before, I was wholly satisfied that crisis had been avoided..this time.

Maybe I should see a doctor. Or stop eating cheese. Or both.

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Marzo de Vida

Wednesday, March 30, 2011

So I have reverted back to my high school antics and went ahead with fashioning a mixed CD for the boy I like. This is nerve racking for several reasons:

1. He is cultured in terms of music and this makes it both simpler and harder to make him a compilation. While he might appreciate my more eclectic music choices because of his awareness, it also could render my selections more primed for judgment and with so many songs to choose from, well…
2. As seen above, crafting a decent mix is like solving a fucking riddle.
And worst of all:
3. I like him, therefore, this time it’s personal. This playlist, speckled with “love” songs, could say too much and maybe I mean it and maybe I don’t but I am not prepared to explain myself either way.

The mix has been received and listened to. The response has left me, likely wrongfully so, ill at ease. On one hand, I might have subconsciously expected some seriously grand gesture to ensue, so it’s my fault for being so fucking medieval. Paradoxically, I think I had hoped I would receive no commentary, critical or otherwise, and then maybe I could excuse this as some cathartic exercise of emotional purging and get on with my life. The bottom line is that these songs took over March of 2011 and are, consequently, songs that I will never listen to again. The latter is a problem for my roommate who had to witness the assemblage of this collection. Having to hear these tunes upwards of 100 times, the result has, at the moment, allegedly rendered him unable to enjoy any music not from this selection. Obviously an issue for me, he is totally banned from playing this mix in my presence. Except for The Misfits. No man will ever have enough force to usurp that band from me. So, if you have the means, enjoy, or don’t, because I know I won’t be.

 

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A Week In Regret

Thursday, March 24, 2011

Firstly, I’d like to apologize to the delivery man who I greeted at my door around 11:30 this morning, shamefaced, in post-psychotrobic delirium and with dragon breath. I hope for both of our sakes that we will never cross paths again. Remorse also goes out to my roommate who, after last night, will now have to tolerate the nickname ‘Uncle Smegma’ for as long as our friendship shall endure.

To my neighbors, who have the misfortune of living next to me, I wish I could atone for the racket thundering through your walls at 3:30 in the morning as I galloped on my treadmill to “Treat Her Like A Lady” under the disillusion that it would enhance the aforementioned psychedelics. My hope is that your children-whom I have heard snoring through the walls- had their dreams touched by the jangle of my roommate and my wild giggling during two consequitive showings of Animals Are Beautiful People and are not scarred fully from our other more menacing cackling.

I am guilt-ridden for roughing up the expensive leather couch my mother purchased me; the left back corner shaved off by the band of the speeding treadmill, the remenants which I had to sweep up off of the floor and dump out of the window. It’s pitiful that I pissed on your generosity by melting part of my couch.

My conscience is also struck by my judgement of the sloshed gentleman with the snaggle-tooth that my friend tried to set me up with earlier that night. This man, wholly intoxicated upon introduction, while at his job nonetheless, slipped behind the bar and fell to bruise both his body and, assumedly, his ego. I am also humbled by having already withdrawn from him upon his first drunken utterance and for being mid-way through a bitter text message to that guy I actually like, barely glancing up when he blundered. That mess of a man had enough drunken gall to include a $5 tip when charging my friend and I for our $6 beer and $9 cocktail and I remain joyless that he got paid. I guess that’s a small price, though, to witness a train wreck that justifies my own deplorable actions from earlier in the week.

My heart goes out to the unfortunate MTA commuters who had to stand while riding the train because, unlike me, they hadn’t done enough cocaine twelve hours before to blockade their nostrils entirely so they could sit across from this guy without being offended by his soiled scent.

The trash bags are telling me he smells like shit.

Apologies, too, go out to my co-worker and friend- one so dear that he threw me a birthday party this year- for hollering a well-deserved “go fuck yourself” to earlier that Wednesday in response to him prosecuting me as “weird” and “obnoxious”. This same coworker I produced pity for the day prior because, as a result of consuming an unthinkable amount of whiskey, he developed a repulsive face rash from vomitting. I am now ashamed for wishing it’s permanency upon him out of animosity, however, not more rueful than for myself on that same Tuesday for having to go to work with coke bloat and a hangover wearing my own rash of regret for making out with a thirty seven year old cocaine peddling, bald, fifteen-year-old-having restaurant manager that same eve.

Although, I might just feel a tad bit more troubled for said hairless man for not letting him get past half of first base out of incredible disgust of “going further” with him, but also for agreeing to accompany him on a date which I erased completely from reality once I sobered up. I am sorry for drinking way too much that night, regretfully doing a lot of your cocaine, and for giving you blue balls. I will remain demeaned for implying, on more than one occasion during our interaction, that I would likely rather sleep with your fifteen year old son instead of you. In truth, there is not enough cocaine or beer in the world that could manifest either into possibility. Ever.

I seek sympathy, once again, from my roommate, for trouncing into my home after partaking in that horror-show of an evening, jacked out of my mind and lamenting of the only guy I feel like I will ever want again and then burdening him with a game of Parcheesi at 4:30 AM followed by requiring his company in the bathroom during my “Never Be Clean” shower at 6.

Lo siento, wey.

I seek repentenence for letting my dog eat his own vomit on Monday because I’m lazy. However, I am not more mournful for that than I am for prescribing myself the obligation of completing the television series Big Love on Sunday out of posterity for the amount of time I had already wasted on the first four seasons. Also, forgiveness is requested for neglecting to take my dog to the park because of it. Masochism at it’s finest, I literally felt myself being mentally ravaged as I witness this long-winded monstrosity and I am regretful THE MOST for ever starting to watch that shit show unfold in the first place.

I request pardon for the excessive ill thoughts I’ve had about 95 percent of customers who frequented my job over the weekend that stemmed solely out of my own self-centeredness and I’m sorry I was there on my usual days off in the first place (though, in retrospect, it could have been worse… for all of us).

I am grievous that Alex Chilton croaked on St. Patrick’s Day, forever destroying the merriment of that holiday for me, and I’m embarrassed that I’m sombre over the death of a man I’ve never met.

I lament in earnest for not finding the Official St. Patrick’s Day Headquarters until two days after the holiday.

Maybe Next Year

I remain bashful, Mom, for running away to Chico on that Irish holiday eight years ago and I’m guilt-laden that I’ve recreated that stretch of time this week by acting as a selfish, drugged up drunk. I’m sorry, to everyone, for smoking your last cigarette.

Not least, I’m sorry over feeling anguish for my hapless choices made throughout the week as a result of emotionally cheating on Tim Riggins with a real person who might as well be on Mars.. I’m more sorry for having any feelings at all.

But, most of all, I’m sorry I’m not sorry.

Let it rot.

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The Finer You Chop It, The Less It Will Burn

Friday, March 11, 2011

I haven’t been feeling self-destructive or “fun” enough recently.  This could be credited to the few days I’ve spent more or less sober, the affects of which I will address here in due time.  Even so, I’ve been desiring to experience that reckless abandon of youth again, but in an “adult-way”, which really just means that I should avoid becoming a junkie and I have a job now that it is my preference to keep.  I maintain a schedule that could cater to just the right amount of jeopardy but that I squander on overflowing myself with alcohol, which had been the original plan for the evening.  However, when I failed to inform the two I had internally chosen to be my Danger Buddies of my after dark plans, I found myself going home alone.

Being a little drunk and stoned as it was when I got here, I decided that I didn’t need anyone else with me in order to get outrageous.  Sifting through my pill bottle marked Melatonin but that also contains some dimunitive cocktail of prescription merriment, I found the half of Ambien I’ve been hoarding since Christmas and got right to chopping that shit up at 12:50 AM.

As a teenager, Ambien was administered to me on the nightly to aid with my insomnia.  When I experienced my computer screen melting into a colorful sheer outline of a circus parade with clowns, balloons, and an excited black family the first time I took it, I knew this was the pill for me.  With the tutelage of one of the girls I met at “Bad Kid Camp”, I eventually graduated to Ambien’s big sister, Sonata.  This pill heightened every effect of Ambien and came in time release capsules that were optimal for a quick and easy snootful without requiring the messy crushing of the pill or the “boring” alternative of taking it orally.

A piece of mine circa 2004 titled "Who's Lindsey?"

These days are a far cry from being the pill king-pin kid.  I had one half of an Ambien given to me by my brother around Christmas time for “prescribed uses” as we all shared a familial laugh over, “make sure you don’t snort it this time, ha-HA!”  I stamped that shit up last night and blew through it on a stack of outdated Encyclopedias in my foyer like it was 2003 while my dog looked at me disapprovingly from the hallway.  Quickly, my brain was sufficiently mellowed  which is when I thought something along the lines of, “oh, maybe I should eat some of those mushrooms that have been maturing in my desk drawer.  Now is definitely the right time.”  A couple of modest pinches later, I was ready for a hell of a night.  I decided immediately that this combination of alcohol, marijuana, half a snorted Ambien, some mushrooms, and every cigarette left in my pack was going to propel me in making the best mix CD of all time for that guy I’m all about and how lucky am I to have this whole evening for radical musical discovery and manipulation and how fortunate is HE to be receiving this psychedelic symphonious experience fashioned from the light of my dosed-up heart.

I clocked out around 1:42 AM when I decided to lay in my bed and “feel” all of the music I had collected to make this mix.  That also meant I was going to sleep instantly.  After nearly an hour of “fun”, two cigarettes, and some seriously confused meandering about in my apartment, I hit the sack listening to 2.6 hours of music and I can’t even recall finishing the first song.

I woke up about an hour ago and called my mom to get her credit card number so I could buy some shit on the internet.  She’s always happy to hear from me, even rudely at 3 AM her time and solely for money.  Still not fully cognizant, we chatted about my job and the weather, my impending new roommate’s arrival, how good my bad dog is and I got off the phone to go back to sleep but not.

I know that the Ambien worked and the alcohol obviously had an affect as I decided to eat mushrooms alone in my apartment at one in the morning and also because I feel a rancid shit currently brewing in my system.  I smoked a decent portion of my pot that I wish I hadn’t.  I guess the first big question of this Friday is if the mushrooms worked.  Maybe.  I do feel a little sick and strange right now and things look a little better.  This could also be attributed to the fact it is practically 7:30 in the morning and I am awake on what arguably could be called the “right side” of the hour as I did sleep restfully for some time.  I could associate my overwhelming urge to pet my dog with the psychedelic, but it is not so overwhelming as to let him up on my clean sheets since my adult self did change them yesterday.  Did I succeed in throwing myself into a night of risky behaviors as aspired in fond reminiscence of my carefree salad days?  Or, rather, were my after hours uncomfortably close to the factual past?  I’d sumise that last night was me sheepishly knocking on retired youth’s door and all but starring through the peephole to see myself glaring right back.  I’m up at 7:26 AM for no reason, confused, feeling sick, hung over, disappointed, and alone, wondering if I’m still on drugs, and am writing about it on the internet.  Yep, sounds just like 15 to me.

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