Tag Archives: california

Bath Salts, bitches!


Ban? (Health News)

You know that stuff that you put in a hot bath? Well, you don’t if you live in California with Russian whores that don’t understand the bath concept… nor do you if you live in a Chelsea crack shack with tiny pipes for plumbing. Anyway, it’s like Mr. Bubble, but powder and alledgely, you can get high. Mephedrone and methylenedioxypyrovalerone, or MDPV.

I’m not saying try to get it while you still can…. kids.

… but I’m also not not saying that.

Got to love the double-negatives and mixed-messages.

In the end, though, it seems more like dust than anything else.

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Holy Cocaine, Batman.

Who the fuck knows?

...or the other coke?

so, that happened.

oh, you know, the whole coke thing. I mean, I really had no real desire to do or not do it. And, by this time I was pretty fucked up, over-over-over the limit drunk. …I believe. Yes, I was.

I only did 2 lines. But it was nice, a nice little “Hello, 2011!”.

Apparently, there were drugs all over this bitch, though. I guess I was just so distracted and unaware. Or maybe it was more like, “try to keep the drugs away from the drug addict“. Eh, either way, it’s probably better. Because really, it’s probably actually better to “keep the drugs away from the drug addict”. It was a small party… and everyone is pretty aware of the extent of the needle-wielding junkie that was I. So, I guess it’s nice.

Anyway, the last time I did coke, I believe was in 2004. Barring any parties or any other incidental times that may have slipped my mind. But I was pretty much self-conditioned in my unintentional Pavlovian shooting so much coke that I needed to drink warm straight vodka from a coffee cup. So, I don’t believe that there were any incidental times in Los Angeles. Ironic… or something, huh? Eh, I guess just leave Los Angeles for a softer, more controlled version of my discontinous though long and hearty dance with my meth. So, it’s nice.

I don’t know why I continue to write, “so, it’s nice”. But I guess, it’s nice because I’ve finally stopped my DT’s and sweating cocaethalyne (the oh so lovely bastard child of coke’s dance with alcohol) out of every pore of my body. And finally feel a bit stable-ish. Now, it’s just the dehydrated exhaustion. And this can be fixed with a little klonopin followed by sleep.

Again, nice!

Anyway, that’s how it went down (minor details, here and there thrown to the wind every time I may have exhaled my physically sweet and physiologically toxic breath this night in question)… I must say I get very self-righteous when properly wasted. Having random though strong opinions about things then having the balls (…or synaptic connectivity) to express said things with a conviction that I rarely ever have if not for the ethanol.

Everyone else went down, but my little friend and I were on the elevator when the ball-dropped. …and no, my ‘little friend’ is not a line of something or a drink in hand… it was an actual friend… like human. And so, out the doors on 46th and 8th. We missed it by a second. …Like we cared. It actually feel it makes me superior… like, really, do I need to see the ball drop, no. But could I have given very little effort? yes. See, I’m not a ‘privileged’ person, in certain ways… so, sometimes, I relish the privilege card.

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I Left My Right Brain in New York

06 Jan 2010

I left my right brain in New York

…when I moved away.

…5 years ago.

I guess this was always sort of my intention. This move isn’t as spontaneous and all “look at that chick do crazy spontaneous things without thinking about them” as an indefinite trek across the country with no job nor place to stay awaiting me might, at first, appear. There was a degree of rationalization masquerading as conscious decision-making present.

Go to this new town, straighten-out, do my version of the business thing (in the appropriate business)… and return somewhat balanced. Able to converge the right and left hemispheres of my brain, I would not spiral out of control for my art and/or art-induced lifestyle.

Or that was the rationalization anyway.

Then there is also the whole “what if” thing that happens when one is ‘over it’.

All about mass destruction and creation and learning and things having to be soooo interesting and being sooo passionate that your heart explodes in a mass blood shower over all of your internal organs every single second of every single day. I mean, it is pure… it is lovely… it is what everything actually should always be all the time. It is, in a word, me. Characteristically and, at certain points, retarded-intense. And, yes, sometimes… melodramatic. I can dig it.

But keeping up this sort of momentum for an extended period of time (especially after Frank up and disappears with his car and his hat that I think he may wear and, most importantly, this meth-addicted chick’s meth) becomes a bit more difficult… then alternatingly somewhat questionable.

Though not really “questionable” in a way that your author would allow her brain to recognize. I mean, this sort of thing had been my thing my entire life up until this point. I was all eat/drink/sleep this bleeding-heart version of ‘creativity’ and stimulation since I was born. Well, not that specific version. It had snow-balled, yes. But why shouldn’t it? And so, I didn’t really know, understand or care to value anything else.

This is where the “what if” came about. What if… I just decided to do the opposite (even though I had no experience of what that was)? What if I tried to do the adult thing… the responsibility thing… the not living in a proverbial crackshack in Chelsea thing?

What if… I tried to live amongst the normal people… and then possibly, one day become them-thing?

I’m lying though, really. The impetus… the catalyst for any of this “what if” and “maybe this sucks so I should change things” was simply… the question: what was I going to do without meth? How would I be able to function?

And in this self-preserving manner, the broader truth of what California is had to be kept under wraps. You know, what this place actually is. Empty, shallow, devoid of any stimulation or movement… you know, the yushe (usual). Plus, this sort of pre-thinking destroys anything that might be able to flourish.

24 Feb 2010 (update)…

So, it has come to a head. All of the aforewritten, old news. Or rather, now actualized, redundant to think about.

I have raped this town to the degree of which I have the capacity to do so.

Its time to go back. Actually, its time to go forward.

The thing is, though just a general blur of a plan, I actually have learned certain skills non-inate to me with my head-first slingshot rubber band fling into an unknown world. A world of talk and selling, name-dropping and nepotism, cultivating relationships based on personal gain; the world of the middleman. And momentary identity crises and personal opinion aside (I hate it)… this is a large part of how the world works in general.

And I actually learned.

Now, I’ll certainly never be a wheeler-deeler or anything resembling this sort of thing (by choice and by skill) but that was never the intent. The verbally retarded, mute, real-time communicator version of myself that existed five years ago has evolved through this whole process. Absorbed this sort of thing. Right brain/Left brain moving just a bit closer toward each other in the sandbox.

And I do feel different. More whole. Comfortable with existing in life. Free. …er.

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This took a bit more planning…

Date: 27 May 2007

Location: Los Angeles, CA 

This took a bit more planning, I realize.

Bottle between my legs… wrist twists and twists a wine key drills further and further, pierces the foil seal then take no mercy on the cork revealed…

Thank you, unmentioned restaurants, for the fledgling wine keys in my bag, car… everywhere! One must always be prepared! And furthermore, the skill. Constant opening of similar wine bottles with speed and accuracy. For this, if nothing else, a shout out, peace, props.

Well, of course, there is something else…

Head pops up… leftright… left right… never down…

…where my right wrist twists and twists and twists. Determined, automatic but somehow careful not to pierce the black leggings with the lace mid-calf.

Man, its fuckin’ hot!

…in the driver seat… of the Celica. Where my wrist twists and the sun basks in prime-time, ninety degree angle and bakes me, through the glass of the windshield of the sunroof, oven-style, squeezing every last drop of water in my body into a chemical bead on my forehead. Lick me… you’d probably catch a buzz. Dehydration city, baby!

Sometime in the vicinity of 2pm… possibly later… but as long as my eyes did not catch a glimpse of the digital glow, nothing was ever definite, I perfect the skill of the blind wine-cork-pop.

A parked car in a random, dead-end, side-street. miracle mile. ha!



okay, now…

I am a drug addict! I know this.

But what the fuck is this?

Where do my hands desperately twist toward? What is this cork?

Some kind of car-ass wino? In Los Angeles? …California?!

Um, okay… NO.

Pokey-poke Chelsea junkie, train-track smile, bopping across 23rd… yes.

But… what the fuck is this?

But my wrist twists and…


… I remember ‘what the fuck this is’.

In an effort to keep the scales more-or-less aligned… manage, maintain the buzz or more appropriately, myself… I have found that a liquid lunch is much to my advantage. Nicely timed. Liquid lunch. Ahhh—-!

During the morning period [say 9am – 1pm] I would work the opposite angle [alongside my actual job, of course… which I love, don’t get me wrong… and is, for me, categorically the best job/occupation I’ve ever had, hands down!… but that’s another story].

Preceding this morning period… up at 6:30am, a shower and sit ups, push ups… all sorts of ‘ups’ came makeup alongside a glass or two of cheap white [where ever my threshold lay that day] in the form of what others have called, “2 buck chuck” from Trader Joes on Santa Monica… followed by a bump or three of cheap white…. in the form of… in the west, they call it methamphetamine. In the west, it’s also pretty much a crap-shoot. But, oh so, lovely. A cousin, brother, some distant relative of it’s sophisticated eastern counterpart [also another story].

I can dig it.

Off to the aforementioned job. The Celica; a perfect, though somehow indescribable blue. Heads out of the garage in East West Hollywood toward Gardner [where there is a traffic light] and heads down… down… down… the meth straightens and focuses and brings a wonderful glint to my train-track smile. But, most importantly, creates a synthesis with the alcohol.


I am what I always should be.

And down, down… the same path… the same mix on the CD [at the same point everyday… the same song hits]… on Gardner, I hit 3rd? maybe [where the Grove is, whatever]… and the light is always LLOOOOONNGG. Exquisitely long enough for me to finish the cute metallic thermos of the remainder of aforementioned liquid white. I mean, there’s that park just passed that library and a 7-11 and the long long light…. oh, and that Washington Mutual that is not the user-friendly bank it’s said to be.

Not so much a ‘grimace’… just a ‘probably not water in that cute metallic Urban Outfitters‘ blue-pink thermos’**… as the last drops trickle down onto my dry tongue.

**UPDATE… 26 May 2011**

Scrounging around the Celica that no longer turns on, but still looks awesome as hell… the author finds under the driver seat (where she left it, after she threw it, when the cops decided to search the car, in the time that took place just before the events details in the “Story ’bout a Girl…” post) the exact cute metallic Urban Outfitters’ blue-pink thermos that she so often imbibed from… and some would say, saved her life (in a balance sort of way)… and by ‘some’, the author means… the author herself. It will always have a place in her heart. Click >>here<< for the picture. Yes, it did used to have a pink dome cap that was connected to what can only be described as shredded connector-thing. And yes, when opened, much of the top was corroded and all of the bottom was a petry dish housing for the bastard child of wine, metal, and oxygen. And it reeked. But, then again, alot of things are different now.

Down… down… just passed Miracle Mile… I arrive to the house on Cloverdale… park… and enter.

After a morning of bumps here and there [maybe two, three at the most] in the unlockable bathroom in the exquisitely covert house where we conduct hardcore mainstream business… I tip the scales a bit too far left and a liquid lunch in the pretty kick ass car… sweltering, but pretty kick ass was welcomed with open arms to reset, in essence… the balance.

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