writing in this may be one of those terrible mistakes i make over & over again like stroking a beloved pet that happens to be on fire, but it costs nothing to feed unlike my other mistakes & hell i can't turn down that kind of bargain [& it's been so long i've probably been written off as another Casualty of Societal Ills, those murky unnamed semiotic thugs lugging baseball bats with facile labels like "drugs" & "violence," trotted out dutifully whenever something bad happens to wiggle their fingers & terrify infants]. must step lightly else end up knee deep in tar-pits, those dinosaurs so embarrassed having been caught & forever immortalized in the "wrong" neighborhoods - i swear i was just passing through, couldn't possibly have any business here
, t-rex on the corner peddling dino-smack to sweaty stegos & that brachio-fuck with the long neck, he's a crack fiend just look at him picking crumbs up out of the primordial ooze.
so here's what happened, the abridged version: little blue riding hood sets off down the merrily noble path of grad school, is going to be a Successful Journalist or at least uh Overcome Past Obstacles, slips through one semester by sleight of hand, but inevitably the good times are hacked off like a gangrenous limb: how many other joyfully oblivious little microbes can bounce through their days, minding their precious business, even managing to get to class once in a while, when all of a sudden OH SHIT WHY ARE THE COPS KICKING DOWN MY DOOR - one cop & nine EMTs sent by the concerned souls at New York University to remove my apartment's door from its hinges because i "looked sick" according to some fleck of dogshit without so much as a medical degree to qualify such esteemed judgments. chased into the down-elevator with blood pressure machines & doors slide shut practically on their grasping fingers but this escape is not to last, a peaceful afternoon at home becomes microbe's nite out at the lovely, posh Emergency Psychiatric ward in a bushwick hospital renowned more for its bedbugs than its quality of care where i'm sent home the next morning because "uh, we don't know why you're here, there's nothing wrong with you." nothing wrong with me except a frothing horde of concerned citizens that is. time to put another coat of good intentions down on that road to hell, it was starting to CRACK UP.
so my academic endeavor once more ends in total abject failure, that costly trip to the funnyfarm forcing me to miss just enough classes to - oops! - fail by default/leave in disgrace, but check out that silver lining
- i have a "job" writing so i can adequately pantomime that i haven't atrophied completely, & if i repeat it enough times i can convince myself it resembles my journalistic intentions, but really i'm just documenting the mysterious inner workings of the Investment Banking Industry with an enthusiasm of the sort found only on buy-one-get-one-free-day at the local crackhouse, i mean these suit-tie hybrids are getting biographied like never before & i no longer have to commute to grand central to retrieve my pay from the mouths of lions. now the lions come to me to be driven away by INSUFFICIENT FUNDS notices.
to fill various yawning voids am applying for what will hopefully be 2nd, 3rd, & 4th jobs because at this point trying to recover a social life is one of those unlucky jokes where all the muscles involved in laughter suddenly go medusa on your ass & turn to stone leaving you an inconvenient garden ornament. hey if i can be universally loathed for shit i didn't do at least i can have money about it. it's nice to know people care so much about my well being they will take it upon themselves to spread hideous rumors - not only of the hideous things i HAVE done, of which there are plenty, but of hideous things i HAVEN'T - thus making the world look at its watch & decide well maybe we don't have time to get a drink tonite, i have to get to work early tomorrow, it's the moon's first day of preschool i have to drop it off in Mars' orbit for daycare, no hard feelings hm? fuck you i'll put another hole in your ozone layer so big you'll need skin grafts. if i sound bitter it's probably because i am, but i've been a little out of touch with my feelings ever since they filed that restraining order against me - you know how it is
no matter how sassily you confront reality, all hands-on-hips sideways strut & menacing flip of hair 'this is a dream' - "o really, well, what gave you that idea" 'I'VE HAD IT BEFORE' "you've had apples
before, no? and yet you refrain from questioning their existence, filthy drooling hypocrite that you are!" and QED, hand falls off hip like dead fish, hair falls out head for embarrassment of conspiracy-to-flip's painful failure & collects in a spaghetti-entree heap on the parquet, well what did you expect, confronting reality
like that? no one knows their place any more, no one at all