Not that I’m qualified to say anything about anything, but… this is art at its best… simple and to the fuckin’ point.
It’s kinda genius, actually.
…inside-the-vagina-pink genius [but that’s another story]
A Brief History of Art (Art In Liverpool)
Not like the most insightful thing ever, but I’m fuckin’ bored.
Yes, this is less drug…
…well, actually directly not-drug-related-at-all; but from time-to-time, I find that anyone that would garner any interest in reading this loosely and ill-kept blog would like the “diversion” as it were.
Narcissism: The Malady of Me (nytimes.com)
I mean, as much as I hate to even think about the DSM’s inherently synthetic ‘psychiatric’ categorization and their sometimes grave, sad consequences… you gotta know what’s goin’ on in order to have an interesting opinion, no? And, yes, I understand a certain structure needs to exist… even if it’s harmful (I like neat things). I’m not an anarchist… maybe a bit of a punk, but not an anarchist.
The black chick in the green shirt stands just outside Planet Smoothie in Penn Station. She holds a brown-ish tray of tiny tiny plastic cups filled with something salmon-colored and fruity and pseudo healthy. She yells ‘free samples’ at jagged intervals with all the desperation (semi-aggressive, at that) that a chick that works in a planet smoothie in penn station can. This is New York, afterall. The internal desperation painted on the faces and glowing in the action of its denizens. Penn Station being an in-between place… Limbo or purgatory. I neither loathe nor love the place. It is just a relative constant recurring in equally jagged intervals of my existence.
WordPress for BlackBerry.
…see, it’s possible.
my most recent ‘to be continued’ is not a lie of an optimistically well-intentioned egg fertilized by the sperm of bad memory, apathy and drunken lethargy.
I swallow (and never spit… even during a calorie-free obsessive period) the cute little white swimmy-tads contained in the opalescent jizz that regardless of boy, seems consistently infused with the essence of brie… cheese. glug, glug, glug, gag, glug… deepthroat. Hey, if one can’t be a natural bulimic, why not work the gag reflex to… advantage… I don’t even fuckin’ know.
I’ve totally digressed. Metaphor has become literal and distraction has become… a crutch.
So, without further adieu:
STORYTIME… YAY! (PART II)
Again, I do not know if I’m tired. But after an unknown amount of time in the cold cold holding cell, I decide that I will sleep until I am freed… which shouldn’t be longer than a couple of hours, the guard assures me. Yeah, okay… people that work for the government, in public facilities [ie DMV, prison, healthcare clinics] never know what they are talking about. But naive, new-to-this-whole-jail-thing, me, I do not know this just yet. So, by this time, a couple of additional people are put into the holding cell, including a chick in what seems to be a prom dress-like apparatus who is a completely entitled drunk bitch that belittles the guards. The guards tell us that this is the only opportunity for us to make local calls for free. As my phone was sitting snuggly in my apartment; the only local numbers I have memorized are the cell #’s of the producers that I work for & the office. Not a good idea.
Most of the people I know, myself included, that live out here have some sort of out-of-state number. This is not free. And Jasen, my sort of friend that has vowed to protect me in any situation [without my asking or real wanting], ironically lives pretty close in Glendale … but I do not know his number off-hand. Oh well, I should be released in maybe seven hours, at the most. At this point, we are lined up, released from the holding cell and told to walk down the hall, and around corners. We are separated into two groups; by felony and misdemeanor. There are two guards. I move to the felony line. The guard that told me that I would be released in a few short hours tells me to go back to the other line. I feel better. This is when I start to realize that people don’t know what they are talking about. Because I say something about, “Um I think I’m charged with a felony”. The guard looks at the pink slip that I was given and is all, “well, look at that.” Then looks at me. “She right” she says to the other guard in her high-level Ebonics.
And so, we pick up our scratchy blankets and useless sheets. The jail cell sliiiides open and we enter. It is somewhat dark… this is both positive and negative. We walk down the middle of two rows of horizontally and much too closely positioned bunk-style beds with vinyl/plastic-y gym-mat mattresses. This is sort of cool. But the coolness of the bunk bed can in no way, this time, trump the fact that there are no cool ladders to climb or child-like colors but rather an exposed toilet and an arsenal of middle-aged women already in there. I take the second to last high bunk stage-right, contacts positively stuck like transparent colorforms to my eyeballs. Hoisting myself up with just my arms makes me feel youthful, lithe and childlike. So, I win for a second.
Before the guard sliiiides the cell shut, she asks if we would like the large television on. We do not have control of the channels as it is mounted somehow outside of the cell. Though I still do not know if I’m tired, as mentioned before, I’ve decided that I would sleep until this whole thing was over… so I assertively, though kindly say no… everyone else assertively though also somewhat kindly says, “yes”. So, I lose for the moment but I wouldn’t know just how severely until after I’ve seen all the current commercials for soy products, osteoporosis, motherhood, Pantene and all things celebratory of woman-hood 50x over. Estrogen-Nation exists in the Van Nuys prison.
Again, To Be Continued…
Die! (in the best possible way… I mean, how can you not?!)