Post on 31-Oct-2014
description
I’M
GOING TO
HELL FOR THESE
FLAMING
LIPS
A reality check
For Generation Y in the form of
A socio-political psychoanalysis of society
Regarding the subjects of Life and Death
or
A guide to understanding
the Mad Hattress
As told by
Paige Roxy
Featuring
Lolly Jane
To the work of Peter Gabriel
The show of Perry Farrell
The voice of Janis Joplin
The words of Oscar Wilde
The soul of Jerry Garcia
& the hope of Wayne Coyne
For keeping me alive when my family didn’t know what to do and
my friends were unavailable to
Because if you had never lived, I would surely have never
survived
t.D,D.t
:
0101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101
0101010101010101010101010101010
(LOL & Laurie Anderson LY)
/
<forever3
\
R.I.P. Ken Kesey
If I could have any, a conversation with you
I imagine we will speak in Heaven in another dimension
UN INTELLIGENT AC KNOWLEDGE
The people I love know I love them. I hope many of them never read this,
because I want them to continue to love me. There is a reason I have not
included names.
It took a team of people to write this, and even more people to live it. I have
had the greatest support system known to mankind. You can’t possibly
imagine how fucking wonderful it feels to know there are so many people
who give so many fucks about my life after life took all of my fucks. To
everyone I’ve ever known, that’s obvious; you have my deepest and most
sincere gratitude from the bottom of my slaughtered, healing heart.
Truly, the only personal acknowledgement I need to make is to the girl that
once lived in my room. For I feel the things that have happened to me have
probably happened to you. For if you had never been where I was, I would
never be where I am. Had you not left behind your Bible and sad stories for
me to find in our basement, I don’t know that I would have found myself. I
truly have you to thank, almost more than anyone, for what I have become. I
only ever met you once, when you came back to see the house you once
lived in, but I was still young. You scared me, because at the time, I didn’t
know what to be afraid of but everything. You left me a note card and I don’t
think I ever read it. If I did, I don’t remember what it said. I was told you were
a schizophrenic and at the time and that scared me, too. Anything I didn’t
know, I couldn’t understand and anything I couldn’t understand was just
scary. I wish you would have come back again. After getting older, being
unable to escape the walls that held our piles of shit, unable to escape an
inevitable insanity within us, I wish you would have come back to me. I wish I
would have already found your books and read them and loved them and the
world, living and Dead, so that we could have met as I am when you were.
Or, as I hope, still are. To you my biggest thank you, stranger, for being a
mysterious and absolutely curious magic manifested in my life.
My family, man. My cousins—shit, ma cuzins. My dearest animals of the
forests and basements and garages and fields. Ma homeboys, my girlfriends;
ma mans, my WOMEN. My royalty. My Ghosts. The Healthy Highons. LOLBJs!
Dude, these people… You don’t even understand.
And O.M.G., Naaaatalieeeeee <3.
I know such incredible people that I am eager to meet more incredible
people. Their words have spoken to me, and so I speak.
For them, I have become fearless and full of love.
But really…
Moms, dads, families, nuns.
Stop here.
All you need to know is that you don’t need to know.
CONTENTS
Forward
1. Sup Fine Shit Bye:
A rough explanation and creation of a mythical creature
2. Growing Up Stiff:
The time spent in the death grip of the Catholic church
3. An Impending Doom:
A period in which existence becomes a question
4. The Discovery of Universal Consciousness:
Finding the self and living the Scientific Method
5. Sex, Drugs, and Dubstep:
The shocking and expensive truth to a teen in the new millennium
6. Rock Hopping:
Hitting rock bottom so hard you knock yourself up to retirement
7. Fearless Freaks, Shameless Geeks, & Practical Women:
‘If the world is ending, what does anything matter?’ Generation Y asks
8. A Long And Strange Trip, Indeed:
How life can sometimes become American Beauty
I figure…
If you can’t ask permission…
You can always ask forgiveness
Bless me Mother, for I sin
Let’s begin…
YOU CAN’T MOVE FORWARD LOOKING BACK
“The test begins now”
I sat at my grandma’s dining room table next to my father and we briefly
discussed the Catholic church and myself:
“[Father] is my favourite priest!”
“Maybe we should go visit him, then. Go to church.”
“Why?”
“To talk to Father.”
“I have nothing to talk to him about because we have nothing in
common.”
“Like he’s going to Heaven?”
Ha. Ha. It is titled this way for a reason.
***
“Suburbia” is probably the most interesting place I could have grown up. In
comparison to the surrounding suburbs, I nearly feel fortunate that Suburbia
is where I landed.
I almost hate myself for saying that because I meant every word even
though I really do hate it more than anything I’ve ever known.
The city was founded on strong religious morals and family values. It is a
town that takes pride in the safety of its people from the rest of the world. It
is built in a dream that you can separate yourself from society and stay pure
of the sins that cover it. While many of the young residents of Suburbia plan
to stay and follow in the conservative footsteps of their parents, the rest of
us have done all we can to shake things up. With two major freeways
running perpendicular to one another through this fair city, it takes twenty
minutes to get out and far away and riding east for twenty minutes will take
you to the hood. Perhaps this is where the founders of the idealistic and
white-bred conservitoria of American Dream went terribly wrong. Somehow,
in the midst of this quiet and crimeless town, there is a destructive tunnel of
illegal underground activity happening right beneath the very noses that
went years rejecting all that we are.
After being settled for a time, the idea of somewhere else begins to intrigue
people. There is always a desire to go where they have never been, usually
in hopes that something better is waiting for them. I suppose as a people, we
have a curiosity to travel this small planet we live on. While people as a
whole have covered the planet, there is a trend of groups of people feeling a
need to continue to circle the world. It is almost like a first world mentality, if
you will. The pilgrims came to America to escape religious persecution. They
ironically took the land from the Native on a murderous rampage for more,
and settled in as farmers. When the Industrial Revolution began, people
were beginning to become discontent with life in the open country and left
their farms for factories. Urban cities were on the rise, creating more
“opportunities” like new jobs, or, in essence, purposes for living. Working
jobs that didn’t involve as much time-consuming labour left people with time
for luxury. With luxury came gluttony, glamour, and a new kind of greed.
Depression and war ran rampant through cities that once held promise to the
people who moved away from the country, or risked life itself fleeing their
own countries in hopes of finding this “something better”. The towers built in
gold were now rotting away. When there is not enough for everyone, you get
the worst out of anyone. It was around this time a certain sense of
community was lost. Because the supply was no longer meeting the demand,
crime and drug use were beginning to increase. Many people want to blame
an influence of African American culture that has come out of our modern
ghettos as the source for the downfall of civilization, but it is what we, the
pilgrims, left for them to go on. We created the business of trafficking long
before they did—in fact, isn’t that exactly how they got here? The Man has
always been in control of both legal and illegal business. When one fails, the
other booms. We never made a full recovery from the stock market crashing
in the 20s, but instead of really fixing the problem, we left it for someone
else to figure out. If Capitalism and Consumerism aren’t bringing in the
money, Crime and Punishment certainly will.
They ran from cities to the safe-haven of uniform houses outside of them,
and thus, the birth of the suburbs: an idea that people can be kept from the
dangers and temptations of life. What makes me laugh the most is that
these people who wanted to keep their children sheltered from all the evils
of the world that infected the urban cities—when that way of life was no
longer the dream, but a realized nightmare—created it in the very place they
sought to escape it. In the attempts of essentially sheltering the young from
the rough and tough streets no longer paved in silver, they have
inadvertently given home to it. The children born into a life that lacks a drive
for survival due to steady incomes and expensive taste has left a restless
and bored generation lost in space. We became bored of having nothing to
do and no reason to keep going. The generation drifting without a purpose
needed something to keep them grounded to Earth, and the best solution
sounded like breaking the law. Something to live for and something to die
for, because these are the two things promised to everyone everywhere:
living and dying.
If you give people nothing to live for, they don’t really care if they are alive.
This is why many people, especially ones stuck in grids apart from the guts
and glory of our society, participate in reckless and potentially fatal behavior.
They simply do not care what happens in Life because most people feel a
mostly purposeless existence. We have nothing left to do because we no
longer have to worry about survival. Some people enjoy this life, others do
not. Nothing is permanent, so a lot of feeling is lost. A lot of human emotion
is suffocated, usually by outside influences—be it education, technology,
drugs, etc. People over time become accustom to finding ways to keep
themselves busy, regardless of the amount of trouble it could bring to them
because either way, they are going to die. Some people use school as a
motivation to be a functional member of society. Technology in the form of
entertainment is a very good tool in keeping people distracted from
questioning the world around them. Drugs disconnect people from reality
altogether.
Religion is often used as a means to control the actions of a group of people
by giving them something to look forward to in Death that can only be
obtained for good behaviors and ultimate devotion to a certain way of Life.
This is why the government refuses to separate church and state. We have
seen this play over the course of history. In a sense, it prevents people from
choosing the things in Life that kill you in hopes that you will live another Life
when you’re finished with this one. The less of an outside influence you have
on your body and soul, the better of a chance that your next life will be more
enjoyable. Though it is not entirely abolished, there is an obvious separation
of church and state, leaving the church with little power over today’s youth.
To them, we are the heathens of the world. For the first time in our country’s
short history, our generation is not run by a particular religious sect to unify
and control the highest population of young people to be here yet. With life
expectancy at an all time high, we are an age that ages faster than we
mature.
America has become a ruthless society that capitalizes on the sex appeal of
women, promotes the use of drugs, and instills the value of money to life.
Our economy and our government are in shambles, and we are doing
absolutely nothing to fix it. It is hard to listen to people tell us what to do
when life as we know it is in the process of completely falling apart. Our
parents and their parents expect us to live the lives that they lived, or to not
make the same mistakes that they did. What they don’t realize—or at least
refuse to admit—is that Life as they knew no longer exists. It is hard to
ignore what have become the norms. It is not unusual to want or have the
things advertised on our televisions, radios, computers, cell phones, and
around every corner you look. It just so happens that the things we strive for
are not necessary to survival, only luxury. We have become lazy because we
work for money. The working class and up do not have to undergo physical
trial and error for food or shelter, we just have to work for the money to get
these things. It leaves us spare time to be destructive because we have
nothing left to build. We spend time advancing in technology that is getting
us nowhere but further apart from one another.
Is that the point of technology? Is the idea to eventually take human-to-
human contact and replace it with a hand-held device that could occupy you
in any way a person can? You can ask it a question and it will tell you the
answer. You can socialize or play games and say whatever you want to
whomever you want, where ever they may be. You can watch TV, use the
Internet, and navigate your way around the world. Whatever your heart
desires, your phone provides. What does that mean for people? What are we
doing to our own society and why? The point to life, in the feral sense, is to
survive. What do you do when you have everything you need at the touch of
a button? Keep yourself busy by giving you everything you want at your
fingertips. It seems as if Life’s general purpose—referring once more to
survival—can no longer apply to the human race. It is diminishing the
collective morale day by day, with many turning to not only their forms of
entertainment but also different substances to keep their minds distracted
from the fact they live a somewhat pointless existence. This is the
beginnings of the Technological Revolution, where everything that once
mattered is no longer of importance. Perhaps we are already in the midst of
this revolution. If we are really lucky, maybe it will soon be over.
But what next? Man has built so far up, he cannot go any higher. Man has
built so far out, he is touching himself. Man has built so far in, we can no
longer see ourselves.
What meow?
It is not a secret that no one seems to know what to do. Everything as we
know it is on its slow spiral downward and we don’t want to necessarily try to
stop it because we don’t know exactly where it’s going and it sounds like an
awful lot of effort to have to stop a force as strong as Everything. People can
sort of feel something is not right, but most of them look the other way and
hope for the best. And that’s okay. I don’t think it is a bad thing for people to
want to ignore the big things and enjoy the little things. If you can be happy,
by all means, do it. Be happy. But for those of you who cannot be happy,
however, this one goes out to you. For anyone who has ever questioned
anything, I write the following to you.
I don’t want anyone to think I believe I can’t be wrong. Most people that I
have met have this idea engraved deep inside their heads that I can’t be
wrong. I can be. I can even admit to it when I am. Anyone that has ever
proved me wrong can tell you that I can admit to it. I’m sorry if you aren’t
one of those people. I apologize when I feel I should and for that, I expect
one when I think I deserve one. I know my opinions don’t agree with
everyone… Or, in reality, most people. I am aware I am very radical. I know if
I am going to portray myself as radically as I think, I am going to turn heads.
That doesn’t mean my goal is to turn heads. The point to my existence is to
get people to be themselves because I feel like we have this stupid idea that
we have to impress each other all of the time. The ideas of formality and
professionalism baffle me more than slightly. This doesn’t mean I am
completely rude all the time. I have manners. I just don’t always use them. I
know when it is appropriate to be polite, and if you think that is all the time,
well. I guess you are one of the many people who disagree with me.
Regardless of personal feelings, I’d like anyone that reads this to tell me
what they think about it. I mean, this is literally the book of thought in my
head, and if you are willing to read the thoughts in my head, I’d like to know
the thoughts in yours. Even if we disagree, if by chance we do agree, I’d love
to hear someone else’s opinion. Tell me why I’m wrong or let me know if you
think I’m right. Tell me what you disagree with or let me know if you agree.
Tell me what trips you out or let me know if you want to trip harder, ya dig? I
know it’s a lot to handle all at once. Pace yourself as necessary.
Though I recommend you read fast and
slow down.
I am not here to harm or hurt feelings. I come in peace, I go in peace. I just
have a lot on my mind and I think some of it might be useful to someone
somewhere in the sea…
It’s like: I’m helping myself by getting all this shit out of my head, and I’m
hoping that in helping me, it might help someone else. And maybe when that
person has helped themselves, they can help someone else. I’m here to help
because nothing seems okay but no one seems to care and if they do care,
they don’t know what to do about it. Or, if they do know what to do about it,
they don’t seem to be doing it. So I’m taking initiative to try to get
something done. I’ve taken on so much in my own life and lives connected to
mine that I have now taken the weight of the world and willingly put it on my
shoulder.
Uh suhin’.
Let me tell you, it fucking hurts. I think it’s about to break my neck or snap
my brain but if I can accomplish anything with this weight, then I think it will
have been well worth my spine. What am I really trying to accomplish,
though? I know what I would like to accomplish, but is it possible? Is peace
plausible? Will happiness ever happen? Can hope become faith and faith
become freedom? Can hate become love and can love live without fear? But
how can you measure the success of an idea? How can you judge a theory?
And what if there aren’t answers to my questions, anyway? Either way, what
I really want is the whole world to smile all at once. Even if it is only once.
Just to see what could happen.
***
I suppose there are plenty of things the Vatican and I disagree upon.
According to their own rules, my dad and I are correct in saying I’m going to
“Hell.” (You know, that right there.) I don’t believe in Hell. I don’t believe in
Heaven. I don’t believe in God. I believe in the Universe we exist in, and that
we are all a part of this greater consciousness about us. And I don’t think I
should have to tell a stranger, or someone I have to see often, all of my sins
to be forgiven. I don’t feel that any of my actions have hurt God because I
don’t believe in him, and even when I did, I didn’t believe in having to please
him all of the time. I think if He is as great as they claim He is, He’ll love me
no matter what. The idea of the priest is that he is your middle man to God,
so you tell him your sins, and he tells God. I’m cutting out the middle man,
and I don’t think there’s a God to get the message to.
I think many of the things I have done have been morally questionable, but
they are things that I have done. I may not be proud of everything, but I
regret nothing. Without making the stupid decisions of a rebellious youth, I
would never be the person I am. But now, I come clean. And who better to
confess to than whomever the fuck cares enough to read it? Why ask
forgiveness of someone who I don’t think is there, when I could just ask
forgiveness of the world around me? I’m here meow! What happens when I
die doesn’t make a difference of how I’m gonna live, even if I’m going to Hell
for this.
“For this is all a dream we dreamed one afternoon long ago”
SUP FINE SHIT BYE
“Is it wrong to think it’s love when it tries the way it does?”
“Hey!”
“Sup”
“How are you?”
“Fine”
“What’s new?”
“Shit”
“So good to see you!”
“Bye”
***
Everything about your life is described in one word. For as long as you
interact with other human beings, you will be asked the question, “How’s
life?” Most people automatically respond with, “Good.” Some people—people
who are truly content—have no problem with saying good. For those who do
not find life bad must find life to be quite good. Some people say good to
avoid how life really is because nine out of ten times, whoever’s asking
doesn’t have time to care about how your life really is. Six out of nine of
those times, you don’t want to tell them, anyway. When someone asks me
that question, or, “How are things?” or, “How you livin’, baby?” I can’t bear
to come out with something as easy or falsified as, “Good.” It is rare that the
only way I feel about life is good. I have much stronger emotions and a much
wider vocabulary to automate the word good as the answer to those
questions. If, in essence, my life is going to be described in one word, it is
going to be one to apply to my life. Life isn’t always good. It can be worse or
it might even be better. I have come to the conclusion that there is only one
word that can describe my life. No matter if I am mixed in with the pits at the
bottom of the barrels or flying above the birds, planes, and clouds
themselves, things are always ridiculous. My life is, as well as all that I am,
absolutely ridiculous.
Lauren is a name that doesn’t suit “ridiculous” very well. I find it to be so
boring because my whole life, I’ve known so damn many of them. Lauren is
kind of a drunken whore’s name. Or it is the name of the quietest smart girl
in the class. I’m okay with being a book worm, but people would sooner
assume me a drunken whore than the innocent girl in the corner. I guess I’ve
been both, so I couldn’t be mad about it either way. Clearly, I have since
abandoned my birth name. I have not used my last name now not because I
don’t want to be associated with my family, but because I wouldn’t force my
family to be associated with this which I shall go to their Hell for.
Important side note: My dad took my mom to a concert whilst I stayed in her womb,
making RUSH the first concert I ever attended. Maybe that’s why I don’t like the Beatles.
That was probably not what you would have expected me to follow that with. I don’t know, it
is better we get this out of the way now:
Maybe I am just my father’s daughter, but Rush is the greatest band ever.
They aren’t my favourite, and they aren’t the most popular, but greatest? Undoubtedly. Just
because Tom Sawyer annoys the suckin’ fuck out of you doesn’t mean that Rush is a fuckin’
suck. Face it, nobody rocks a bass like Geddy Lee except for Tony Levin and Chris Squire.
Neil Peart is pretty much the greatest drummer alive because the only two drummers good
enough to compete with him are Keith Moon and John Bonham. Oh shit. Greatest drummer
alive. And Alex Lifeson may not be Jimi Hendrix, but at least he is a talented guitar player
actively making music—dude, they are still actively making music!—because Generation Y
has produced nothing of standard. Generation X at least had John Mayer.
But because the nerds that play Dungeons and Dragons like Rush, it’s not cool to like Rush.
So instead of judging them based on talent and merit or anything legitimate, everyone hates
Rush because it’s not cool to like Rush. But the Beatles are super popular so they must be
totally awesome, right? I know that they allowed music to flourish as we know it today and
debatably caused the fall of the U.S.S.R., which is why they are “the greatest band ever”. I
appreciate musical freedom, but it doesn’t make me like pop music any more. I don’t hate
the Beatles, but no, I don’t fucking like them, either and no, I don’t fucking have to just
because everyone else does. Maybe I’m just jealous of them. Either way, I find some of their
songs to be okay and the rest mostly annoy me. Okay, dad. If you’re reading this, that’s the
proudest you will ever be of me. Hold onto this moment forever and put the book down to
never pick it up again.
So shoot me. Or stop reading. Or accept me for my rebellious ways in my
heathen lifestyle.
Being a product of Suburbia, I am the definition of middle. I am the middle
child of a middle class family that lives off of Middle road in the middle of a
middle-class city. Above me, the upper-middle; below me, the lower-middle;
and I, physically and socially, dead-center of it all. Somehow, I turned out to
be the very opposite of the middle I have lived. Aside from, of course, being
a total stereotypical middle child with “middle-child syndrome” or, in other
words, being the black sheep fuck-up of my family. But somehow, I turned
out to know absolutely no middle ground.
I have a real bad habit of speaking my mind. If I am talking, it is whatever
thought happens to be in my head. And if I’m thinking too much, I won’t talk.
Or sometimes, I won’t shut up. I’m a bit of, what I have been told, a walking
contradiction. I find myself an absolute human paradox. Like I’m a myth or
something. I don’t know how to accurately describe myself in any other way.
I’m strongly misunderstood because no one expects a twenty-year-old
female to be anything but a twenty-year-old girl. I’m not, though, hence why
I’m a myth. Or a mermaid, if you want.
I have yet to meet anyone that can hold conversation to my standard that
can also appreciate glitter as much as I do. There are few boys in girls’
bodies but few men this feminine. There are few people as “white” as I am
that can get fuckin’ ghetto like I do. I don’t know many writers. I don’t know
any writers that smoke as much marijuana as I do because people who
smoke this much weed don’t do much of anything. Sometimes, I feel like the
last beatnik on the planet! I keep up with men when it comes to checking out
women, but I’m completely straight.
Well, no one is completely straight but I prefer dicks to chicks. Best we get
that out of the way now. No matter how badly you and I would love to
believe I’m a total fucking lesbian, I know for a fact I’m not. And yet I hate
the idea of being ogled at for the way I look, but complain that I don’t have a
man.
I’m different, to say the least. I’ve never fit in very well be it the days I was
picked on for no reason in preschool or the days I gave them a reason to pick
on me as a Gothic kid in a Catholic school. It has been the greatest
annoyance and most secretive blessing in my life, to be this weird. It only
bothered me for a moment. The rest of my life has only been better for it,
even if it is a terribly lonely swim.
I think there is a difference between being smart and being intelligent. Being
smart is to know things and being intelligent is understanding things; the
educational difference between books and streets. Between my formal and
informal educations—from what I’ve learned, from what I’ve seen—I think
something’s up and I think I kind of know what it is. But no one believes me
because I’m also textbook insane. I think insanity and intelligence coincide,
but I am my own therapist.
Hey, I’m still here.
It rings so strongly as conceit but I am honestly very self-conscious. That’s
why I often write me off as insane like the rest of the world has. I don’t
believe in mental illness, though. I think our brains began to rot as they
developed and we gave ourselves less to do. The first world was filling with
abundance and our health was getting better. After the body goes the mind.
Our species drove us insane over time. I don’t believe in mental institutions
fixing people who have been diagnosed with these mental illnesses, either.
And I most definitely do not think—in fact, I would go as far as to say I know
regardless of the fact that I haven’t gone to medical school—that drugs are
ever an answer to said mental madness. Ever. There are cases in which
people need to be medicated over time, but I do believe the situation could
always be prevented if treated at early stages.
Most people just need someone to listen to what they have to say. Or maybe
they need a vacation. Or to move and start over. The purely insane are
usually very smart people being highly observant of the world around them
and knowing some sort of information that other people don’t understand or
don’t even care to hear, hence my belief that insanity is unwarranted
intelligence. Some people are just sad and need a reminder that they are the
greatest part about their life. And some people don’t hear it. They give up on
life. People need people to get through life. But it is easier to build a habit on
a drug than it is to love. Honestly. We don’t have time for ourselves, how
could we have time for anyone else? Too many people care about all the
wrong things in life. Your job doesn’t suck because you have a job. Having a
kid isn’t a chore because you are an animal and you are here to reproduce.
Get pregnant and don’t want one? Don’t keep it. You are an animal, but you
have a giant brain in your head to decide whether or not you should. So
many people want or believe their lives are so terrible. At least where I am.
Where not much is happening. The hidden suburban cities lying around the
block from the world. When you live in a suburban city like mine, you have
three options:
1. You pick someone to knock up or get you knocked up, have a happy
picket-fenced life with children and nine-to-five jobs and never leave.
2. Instead of the typical nuclear suburban, you have a kid and never grow
up, continue to get fucked up, and still never leave.
3. You leave.
I guess people that don’t leave or ever truly discover happiness need the
drama of fighting and the thrill to risk dying in order to enjoy Life. And then
certain people can’t take anymore and pass. Or maybe they think it is fun…
Whatever it is, it’s sad. Especially when we speak so sorely of drugs, some of
which aren’t as harmful as they could be helpful, while distributing pill upon
pill upon pill of drugs that are just as if not more dangerous than the ones
you get off the street. Drugs are simply there to take up time. Social
Darwinism, a crutch of the economy, a waste of money; however one would
prefer I scream it.
I feel like I am a drug. I don’t do drugs because I am a drug and a drug
people take in all the wrong ways, at that. Not in the style of Salvador Dali, I
don’t think, because he used it in the plural. I think he kind of had the
imagination of drugs. He embodied all that drugs are, and that’s why he
didn’t do drugs. He can’t do himself. But I am a drug. I am not like any other
drugs or all drugs or any of that, I just am another one of them. People like
me because I make them feel euphoric, mostly about themselves. I am a
dazzling visual display because I simply give no fucks and do as I please. I
sound funny or say funny things and this is entertaining to people, which I
only say because they tell me this. I can never do much more than introduce
myself—or give someone a bump of me? Most people can’t exactly jive with
me after a certain point. And even if they can jive, I can’t. I’m well-educated
but all too real. A dangerous combination, especially in a female.
I am very misunderstood but sort of liked by the people that don’t really use
me, so to speak—those people that only get a taste. They want more. They
always want more. But only certain people get more. What usually happens
to these people, though, they get too much. The reason they feel so good
when they are around me (on me, mind next to the gutter: not as bad as it
sounds but still made me laugh) is because I am a smiling face and smiling
naturally makes you feel happier, in the same way a drug does. I’m releasing
serotonin in your brain, which is something most chemical drugs do. I’m
making you as happy as Molly does because I’m making you smile and I’m
loving you and when I love you I can’t help but tell you how amazing you
truly are because I only know how to see the best in people. And with me,
you are not only using a drug but also using a human being. So I’ll do
anything for you. I’ll make you feel better than you’ve ever felt and I’ll do
whatever I can to make your life perfect. The life I provide of the combination
of a pleasant reality and surrealist escape makes for a dangerously addicting
dependency on my hip.
That is, when you drop a fatty dose of Lolly Jane and trip your dick to the
floor. Lolly is like the most powerful hallucinogen readily available to
Suburbia. But it’s not always available. Sometimes, Lauren runs out of Lolly
tabs and you get left with way too big of a rail of some Roxy Paige.
Even the sun has a dark side.
I try so hard to be the happiest I can be but there are just those times I lose
all hope and want Everything to die. I don’t like feeling this way, but I get as
caught up in the black tar that is Roxy. I never meant to be as morbid as I
am. It just comes out when the cunt busts out. Downers are much stronger
than psychedelics. Where no amount of Lolly is enough, any amount of Roxy
is too much. It’s that nasty, dirty shit that enough of will kill you.
So I try to explain this to people when they meet me, and for some reason,
they never believe me. They have to learn the hard way, which is to get a
taste for themselves. I know I am a lot to handle, so I never have very high of
expectations to keep people in my life too long. I know the inevitable will
soon be realized and it is always that whoever can’t whatever me. Can’t
handle me, stand me, look at me, listen to me, touch me, love me, etc. I
know a lot of people don’t like me and I can’t blame them because I know it’s
a lot. I’m a lot. Some people find me to be incredibly conceited or super
egotistical but I have simply paid attention. I have collected the data of my
experiences and conversations with other people and these are the results.
Everyone wants to treat everyone the same. Just because we are all created
equal doesn’t mean we are all the same. There is nothing wrong with that.
We should just know what we are and are not capable of; or where our
strong points stand or weaknesses fall. I am here to help figure out the
differences. I can talk for days, never too seriously but not all that lightly,
either. I do not wish to offend the listeners. I only want to help. I am just far
more willing than anyone I’ve encountered to discuss the things we fear the
most because I’ve become unafraid.
If you continue, remember that I am open for discussion. Questions?
Comments? This is an open book as long as you keep it open.
***
For those who do not wish to get to the end, start over:
Sup Fine Shit Bye \m/
“If I get home before daylight, I just might get some sleep tonight”
GROWING UP STIFF
“Those evil-natured robots—they’re programmed to destroy us”
You must already realize I was probably one weird fucking kid. When I was
three, JC Penny wanted to turn me into a child model because I guess I was
that damn cute. My mom didn’t let them because I’ve always been this hard
to handle. When the weather was warm, I wore the same thing every day.
This outfit consisted of a homemade poodle skirt intended to be worn for one
fiftieth birthday party; a training bra I didn’t need covered in cherries; and
pink sequined, fringed cowboy boots. I loved to ride my tricycle and sing
Home on the Range about where the deer and the cantaloupe played. I was
also overly anal about my shoes for some reason. I remember a pair of
sneakers with Esmeralda the Disney gypsy on them. I loved those white
socks with the Scrunchy-lookin’ tops at the ankles. I guess I didn’t just care
about how my shoes looked, I also really cared about how they felt. My poor
mother. Before I could do it myself, I would make her put my shoes on and
take them off and readjust and put them back on over and over and over
again. Life of a problem child. Clearly, I was destined for insanity.
I try not to regret anything I do or be upset about anything that happens. I
try, anyway. There will always be exceptions to any rule I could come up
with. In retrospect, I’m quite happy with everything that’s happened, and the
way it has happened. I thank God he doesn’t exist and I’m not a full-blood
Italian. I cannot, however, say I’ve been happy the whole way here. I feel as
though eleven years of Catholic schooling has done me some good, but it
was not the most enjoyable eleven years spent.
Having received both private and public education, I can most definitely
appreciate the money well spent on Catholic schooling. I think I got the best
out of a situation I struggled with the first half of my life. In retrospect, I can
honestly say it was worth it.
I attended a Catholic preschool that was, in short, the shit. They didn’t really
like my style of clothing or my loud singing, but that was okay. I enjoyed
being there, even if they didn’t enjoy me being there. We sang songs and did
crafts and ate snacks and didn’t wear uniforms and only went to chapel once
a month and read children’s books ourselves and learned multiplication and
spoke some Spanish and respected the variety of religions instilled in the
variety of children that were under one convent roof but still had to pray
even if they didn’t. I had so much fun there, but I was also taught more in
those three years than it seemed most kids learned in their first three years
of elementary school.
I never once imagined the entire time I was there that I would have ever
been of all things grateful for Saint D’s.
St. D is a Catholic school on the boarder of Suburbia but technically located
in Wasteland—a suburb Suburbia thought was hood. They provide education
from early preschool through the end of middle school. In my years
attending, students were required to wear a typical Catholic school uniform.
This included white blouses for the “lower el” (first through fourth grade) and
white polos for the “upper el” (fifth through eighth grade). The boys wore
navy blue dress pants because corduroy was banned after my first year,
which was a real bummer, and the girls had the option of pants or ugly plaid
jumper (lower el) or skirt (upper el). Kindergarten and under were exempt
from uniforms. Lucky bastards.
This is a typical Catholic school uniform. The colours and plaid vary. Catholic
school imposes uniforms in the principle that if every child looks the same,
they will all be treated by others in the same way. It is thought to promote a
sense of unity or something among the students.
It’s good for morale?
It’s the only way to teach morals?
It’s…
Well, it’s stupid.
All a uniform does is stifle personal creativity and suffocate self-expression.
This is not good for kids. I’m sure it makes getting ready for school every
morning much easier for many parents, but I think mine would be the
exception to that statistic. I fucking hated my uniform. Even as a child, I
could not comprehend why I had to wear a uniform. I think it probably
bothered me the most because even when we were all the same finger, I still
stuck out like a sore thumb. Or maybe I’m just the longest middle finger.
After all, I was always the tallest girl in my class.
Ha ha.
Every morning must have been a personal hell for my parents. Getting
dressed was absolute torture to my young and naïve mind. Waking up a
night owl was bad enough. Throwing that bitch in a uniform and it is game
over. I hated having to wear the same damn thing every damn day. I have
always been this loud and obnoxious and the monochromatic scheme of my
under-dramatic clothing was such a bore. I hated it. I didn’t want to wear a
skirt. I didn’t want to button my shirt to the collar. And you know what?
Maybe I wanted to pop my collar. Or wear more than one piece of jewelry. I
wanted to wear shoes I liked. I wanted my hair to be purple. Anything but
blue and white.
I think my biggest issue now with uniforms is that I was still picked on. All
throughout elementary school, for whatever personal reasons held, I was
always the odd one out.
After the first year or two of uniforms and totalitarian rule, I was beginning to
get tired of the routine my Life was. Of course, the details of my childhood
are so very vague to me now on account of the things that have happened
since then, but some devil of a rebel inside me was born at a young age. As
much as I appreciate the education I received over the course of the eight
years spent inside a small building shaped like a “D”, I cannot say I agree
with everything they do. In fact, I don’t agree with most of it.
Formal education is most definitely beneficial for a developing brain. I
suppose I can’t compare a Catholic elementary or middle school level
education to a public one because I didn’t get both; I can only compare
eleven years of one to four years of the next. I could, however, tell a
difference in my education from many of my peers. I was being taught
“your” and “you’re” (etc.) in the tenth grade and Generation Y still fucks that
shit up on a daily. I think Catholic school when well for me solely because I
refused to be brainwashed into being Catholic. I think it can almost be
dangerous to development for being Catholic. I don’t think children should be
lied to.
Children will believe whatever you tell them because they don’t know any
better—they don’t really know anything. I can understand why parents want
to shelter their children. I get it, I do. It’s a very scary place out there and
quite frankly, there are people like me. I get why parents want to prevent
their children from being exposed to the abundance of evils in the world,
especially at an age in which they still have their innocence. The problem is
that sheltering a child is not to do it any good. Even if you are successful in
keeping your child’s innocence for most of its life, you are not helping them
as a part of society. Sure, you are keeping them pure and clean or whatever.
Cool. But when something bad does happen, or when they do run into
someone like me, what are they gonna do?
More often than not, the sheltered kids are the ones that seek the danger
they had been sheltered from. Case and point: this guy right here. But that
didn’t happen until high school. And that’s… A whole another chapter.
I wish you had the option of getting a Catholic school education without the
religious bullshit and without having to pay three times the amount of
money. What is wealth but of oneself? You can fix stupid but you can’t create
intelligence. Or perhaps vice versa. Or can you do both? Or maybe it just
depends on the person. Or where they are. Or who they are taught by. Some
people are lucky to be born smart due to genetics. Some people who
shouldn’t or, rather, aren’t expected to be smart sometimes are. Or maybe
more kids would be a lot smarter if you believed they could be and didn’t
make them feel so fucking badly when they weren’t.
Because there are so many people living on such a small planet, we are not
seen as individuals. We are grouped together based on our surroundings. We
are categorized and put aside accordingly, determinate of the side you
reside on. It’s all biased and bullshit. We, as a country, decided we were
somewhat disappointed in ourselves with the low ranks we had on the global
scale of education. We decided we needed to take the shit more seriously or
something. This lead to slightly more rigorous but not much different
graduation requirements and drug dogs sniffing out the high schools at
random every few months. Instead of trying to make things more difficult,
why don’t you change the way they are? Clearly, if most of the other
countries of the world are doing so much better than us, we are doing
something wrong. Americans are full of brute force. There are just certain
times it is good to have some strategy. We want to strengthen our force.
When we should be thinking of a new gameplan, we’re stuck trying to
reinforce the original one due to our inability to admit we are wrong.
Demanding a child to do better at something it cannot do is not going to
make it any better at the task at hand, it will only make the child self-
conscious about all the other tasks you give it. If you really want to improve
the educational system, try some other extreme if you have to be so
goddamn extreme.
Can you believe that maybe your whole life doesn’t always come from
books? I love books. I have always loved to read. I am Lauren the book worm
(though it’s really hard to read a book when you’re writing one). But I like to
read the books that I like to read. I think a lot of kids are discouraged from
reading because they are told what books to read and sometimes, they don’t
like the books they are given. Said children are often reprimanded for not
liking the books they are given because it is assumed that they don’t like
these books or don’t want to read these books because they want to be
rebellious. We assume that if a child cannot concentrate on school, there is
something wrong with him. The child is thought to either be punished until it
reads the books or put on medication to make him want to read the books.
But did anyone ever stop to think that maybe it isn’t the child? Maybe it’s
just the book.
This is honestly the most important time in our lives. Who you become in
your prepubescent years is who will grow in your adolescent years. This is
when you have to teach a person how to live life, not when they have their
whole life ahead of them! But then again, maybe we are not wanted to figure
anything out until we’re too old to do anything about it. Yeah, that sounds
like what they could be doing. Otherwise, I don’t have an explanation as to
how you can’t raise better children unless you want them to spend their
entire lives trying to fix themselves.
The thing I like about religion is school is the ability it gives the school to
teach morals, ethics, and discipline. Kids need these things in childhood or
they grow up careless of the world around them and more hazardously,
themselves. From what I have seen and come to understand, public school
gives you the information and leaves it up to you to interpret it. Catholic
school gives you more information and helps you interpret it, while leaving
out the things they don’t like and enforcing the things they believe. That’s
why I can’t exactly agree with Catholic school or Catholicism in general.
None of the religion stuck with me by the time I “graduated” eighth grade,
but I still had some of the same ideas that I had originally learned in Catholic
school. I had just bent them, broke them, and expanded them beyond the
Catholic church. For example:
At some point in the years of Catholic education, joy went from a word to an acronym on
how to live your life.
J is for Jesus
O is for Others
Y is for You
As I got older, I dropped the J and went with OY [vey].
I’m happy I have the ability to care about other people more than myself; to
be selfless, in a way. It’s nice, but this sort of behavior actually got me nice
and fucked over in reality because I was sheltered from the evil things of the
world. I was told evil existed but if I just ignored it, it would ignore me. My
problem has always been that I question everything. People find it incredibly
annoying but I can’t help it. I don’t really care about what, I’m asking why. If
you can’t tell me why, I am not gonna stop asking. Don’t tell me what I’m not
supposed to do if you can’t tell me why I shouldn’t do it because I’ll probably
do it, even if it is simply finding out exactly why it is a bad idea. With love in
my heart and fantasy in my head, I wandered into the world ready for all the
things I never experienced because it was all I had known nothing about. I’ve
always been a better hands-on learner, anyway.
I think it’s really funny when adults who hate children try to teach them. Why
are you wasting all of this time that could have been put to good use? If you
don’t know how to deal with rowdy six-year-old boys, don’t assume the child
should be on drugs. Perhaps the child isn’t learning anything new from you
and is simply bored with a brain moving at a speed faster than the rest of the
class. He doesn’t need to be on meds, he needs more material. He needs to
fill his brain while he can. This is the most valuable time for learning in
human development. Why stunt a child with drugs? Why would you, at such
a young age, complicate a child’s life with drugs? You’re just going to turn
around and tell them not to do a whole bunch of illegal drugs and not
actually inform you of what effects these drugs have on you, they will just
tell you to say no.
SAY NO TO DRUGS,
KIDS.BUT REMEMBER TO TAKE YOUR PERSCRIPTION EVERY DAY.
Did you ever stop to think that maybe whoever taught this child before you
did a better job than you could ever do in your career of teaching? That
maybe it’s not the child at all—and if not the child, perhaps it is you? Maybe
we don’t need to put these kids who don’t care about what you have to say
on ADD or ADHD medication but instead, maybe we need to give these kids
something they care about. Instead of telling a child they are wrong for what
they want to do rather than what they are told to do, why don’t we just let
them do it?
We are all created equally because we are all born the same but that doesn’t
mean we are all meant to live the same life. Our brains are unique to our
bodies. Instead of trying to force everybody with different brains to do all the
same things, why not let each mind dictate what its body does? We are not
all good at all the same things. None of us are perfect. However, some of us
might be perfect at something others do not do. But if we are all forced to do
the same thing, how would we ever know what we’re best at, what we are
meant to do? If you make someone feel bad about what they cannot do, how
will they feel good about what they can?
Oh. They don’t.
We live in a society where nothing is good enough. No amount of money is
enough. No amount of land is enough. No amount of talent or knowledge or
crowd is ever enough. What is the point in striving toward a goal that cannot
be met, in the theory that nothing is ever good enough? There’s proof in just
about everything we do, number one example being technology. We claimed
to have landed on the moon in 1969 but instead of trying to see what else
we could find out there, we decided to continuously tweak the cell phone.
This is probably my least favourite part of society. Steve Jobs sounds like he
was a pretty cool mother fucker, but the Company needs to stop connecting
us electronically because it disconnects us humanly.
I was one of the first kids I knew with a cell phone. I was in seventh grade. I
got my mom’s old Nokia brick with a turquoise case on it and you bet your
ass I thought it was the coolest. There was almost no point to it because I
was the only kid I knew with one. My sisters got them for their thirteenth
birthdays, so I got one for mine (even though they had to wait until eighth
grade, ha ha!) I brought it to school with me everyday just because I could
but I couldn’t even text, so why did I even have it at school? Yet, I was so
grateful to have this piece of shit. Now there are eight-year-olds with nicer
cell phones than I hope to ever have because—and maybe I sound like a
pretentious humanoid—but I would rather not have a cell phone smarter
than me. Though I don’t know that you can compare human and
technological intelligence, especially because humans have created
technology.
These kids shouldn’t even have cell phones let alone phones that allow them
to be stupid. Being able to access the Internet at all times, at the tips of our
fingers, allows us to be absolutely clueless about Everything. While this
tends not to affect our developed adult minds, this could be extremely
detrimental to the growth of a young, developing mind.
If children are showed nothing but negative reinforcement, they become
unsure of themselves. If they are already disinterested in their schoolwork or
learning in general and are unsure of themselves, why wouldn’t they trust
information they read on their smart little pocket friend? You can verbally
ask it anything. Sometimes, it even has the right answer. The only way you
can know anything is by learning for yourself (to learn by experience, so to
speak), but the generation to follow ours isn’t gonna know anything. Their
entire realities are going to be based on other people’s opinions. The Internet
is public and accessible all over America. Why are you going to trust
anything it tells you?
All these kids are now days are social network profiles. It’s creepy. When we
were in middle school, we played popularity contest on E-Space and some of
us used the damn thing because we had nothing else to do on the Internet
but stupid shit like AlbinoBlackSheep or stupider shit like RateMyPoo (yes,
actual shit) or the ever-deteriorating virus that is Internet porn. Others took
it way too seriously and decided to start using it against people or whatever,
the birth of “cyber bullying,” so moms went nuts because girls were being
bitches on the Internet, shocking. But as time went on, E-Space was beat out
by E-Face. I’m sure we’ve all seen the Social Network—I, the exception to my
own rule (per usual), have not—but from what I was told back in 2006, it was
originally made for college kids. Makes since because Mark was one. Kudos;
that was a fantastic idea. Good way to get introduced to your future
classmates or get in touch with kids at other universities across the country,
that’s cool. What a great educational tool that could have been. That could
have lead to a unified, democratic, online educational system for the people
by the people. What an awesome thing that could have been.
However, Mark’s idea turned out to be too good for Capitalism to have been
used for something practical like education.
In taking away the potential E-Face could have had as something such as a
public / personal information resource, as it seemed to have been on track
for, it was left up to the Man to decide what would become of a seemingly
innocent social networking site. Riddled in ads and covered in anxiety, high
school students got a hold of E-Face and from there, middle school kids and
even younger jumped on the latest Internet craze. Where we could have
used the Internet for good, in a way, we have rotted it to fit in with the rest
of society.
The problem with adolescents and especially the prepubescent using sites
like E-Face is that they have little to no confidence in themselves. E-Space
was not actively watched by really anyone aside from the young Generation
Y and the local bands shamelessly promoting themselves nowhere. This still
caused enough of a stir to get kids in trouble at school and probably caused
a few suicides in its course of history. Now, the same age group is using a
site that is not only watched by their peers, but also by the rest of the nation
and other parts of the world. The same pressure to be popular exists, but
now everyone is involved and not just their peers. The need to fit in has sort
of become human nature. I suppose if we “like” everything that is said or
posted onto E-Face, or if we have over a thousand friends, that stuff must
make us pretty cool, right?
Wrong! What the fuck does it matter?! It’s the Internet! It’s not even real but
these kids are so engulfed in this fantasy world they can access from any
screen—at home, on their phones, anywhere there is Wi-Fi. I’d say you can’t
pay these kids to play outside, but they would do just about anything for
money. It’s really sad. In creating technology, we have destroyed childhood. I
wasn’t even a kid all that long ago and I can still see what a dangerous
change we have forced upon our next generation. There are people who still
consider me a kid at my young age of twenty, but there is still such a
spacious gap between me and this eighteen and younger crowd. As I observe
the world and its new populous, I do not see promise. I lose hope.
Or maybe I complain because I’m not cool.
Growing up, I was never stocked-full of friends or playmates. I have always
managed to have at least one friend done unto me that I could call my best.
When I first exited the womb, I had Peppy, the daughter of long-time family
friends. We grew apart as we got older, for she was normal. In preschool and
kindergarten, I had KC. We used to stay inside from recess on some days and
help our nun clean up around the classroom. If I did go outside for recess, I
didn’t really have much to do. I have always been one to be off in a corner or
parked on the sidelines. I learned to not let it bother me. It wasn’t when I was
off in my own world (now known as Lollyland!) that I would ever get upset. It
was only when the other kids were mean to me that I would get upset.
And there was this one time they were really mean.
I’m not really sure why people were mean to me. I feel like it must be hard
for three-year-olds to have problems, especially with other three-year-olds,
but I suppose they manage. There was this thing on the playground that
everyone loved more than most the other things on the playground. It was
one of those metal domes with the four animal-shaped seats attached to
perpendicular poles beneath it, made for bouncing up and down and rocking
slightly left to right on. I don’t know why this, of all things, was so much fun,
but the kids loved it. When we were let outside, every kid out there ran
straight for this thing. In retrospect, I really don’t like it. How boring to sit in
one spot! I’ve always liked to climb and hide. Some things never change all
too much.
It was the coolest to sit in the middle of this thing, on the dome. Kids piled on
the center and two or three kids would take each animal and there would be
an eruption of giggles and bounces and it would be just awesome for as
many kids as would fit. Like I said, there would be days I didn’t even bother
going out there. Some days, it didn’t seem worth the trouble or the baby
heartache. But there was this one day, man, I was third in line at the door.
This particular day, once I got across that street with my class and onto to
that grass a free child, I booked it to this stupid play thing. And let me tell
you, I was the first kid to the damn thing. I sat in the center of this dome and
I swear it was like sittin’ on top of the world. I guess we’re always sittin’ on
top of the world, though.
The other children pilled on the damn thing anywhere they could. Two or
three kids would get on each seat, and I knew some kids were gonna pile on
the center with me, too. But some kids—some kid—wasn’t vibin’ sharing this
thing with me. He pushed me the fuck off. I was carried inside crying by my
teacher while all the other kids laughed. I think that kid got in trouble. Better
than the time I pissed my pants, I guess. I consoled myself by putting good
use to the emergency clothes we all had in shoe boxes above our cubbies. I
guess I’ve always been practical.
There was one singular time I was cool. One time. I was colouring a picture of
a dog bone, as I remember, with some brightly coloured markers. I suppose
I’ve always been an artist: I coloured inside the lines. Apparently, it was a big
deal to be able to colour inside the lines. The things children care about are
absolutely hilarious to me. Upon witnessing my mad colouring skills, every
kid in my class wanted to be my best friend. The next day, KC was the only
one to be. And by the week of kindergarten graduation, someone was
shoving the crust of their peanut butter and jelly sandwich in my eye
because I didn’t like peanut butter. Now I only really like crunchy.
Kids don’t really think about these things as potentially dangerous to one’s
mental health because they don’t really have the mental capacity to do so. I
think it is, for that reason, the responsibility of parents and educators to
instill some value backed by rationale to control the behavior of children as
long as they are incapable of making their own decisions in hopes that when
they are capable, they will make good decisions. Now, the biggest problem
with that statement is that it is essentially a matter of opinion. There cannot
be much of a standard of what is right and what is wrong because we don’t
all agree on everything. This is sort of how we get extremes.
I believe Everything is black and white, but I believe Everything is black and
white. This is why I love the yin yang: a Universal balance of good and bad.
It’s so perfect and beautiful, you know? Ever since I was so young, I’ve been
so inclined toward this thing, even without an understanding of it. I don’t
know why. When I was very young, (I imagine it had something to do with
my very prevalent OCD) I liked the idea of both sides being even. I took this
elementary concept and sort of applied it to life with the help of Jesus Christ,
thus my eight years trapped in the brick walls and on the playgrounds of St.
D \m/.
Most young children are very gender bias. This is common, but not useful.
Keeping boys and girls separated at a young age causes girls to hate their
gender more often and want the other gender more often than not. To keep
genders separated at a young age adds pressure upon mixing the two, but it
is critical for sex. This is where people trip up about identity. Sex is what
your DNA has given you. Gender is what society has created for you. I have
come to learn over time that most people believe your gender determines
your sex and your sex is your gender. I do not. I personally feel that we are
all fifty percent man and fifty percent woman. I think if we are created of
both sexes we therefore consist of both genders. We all have a pussy and a
dick. I think if you can’t accept that concept, I recommend you acquaint
yourself with the year 2013.
It’s that yin and yang shit again, right?
If I was forced to label myself as one or the other, I would have to say female
is my sex but male is my gender. It happens. We all do not come out to be
what you want us to be. Sorry. I’m sorry you can’t understand what it is like
to be me. Hope you will someday. I know there are people out there who do.
I guess that’s why there are drag queens and transers and stuff. I totally get
it. I’m sorry I don’t feel a need to shave my arm pits or whatever. I haven’t
always thought of myself as a boy, but girls have always made it really
obvious that I am not a girl. For years, I tried. Sometimes, I was downright
girly. But I have always struggled with… girls.
I’m trying to be a girl this time, I really am. But you couldn’t pay me to
shave my armpits.
It’s funny because Catholic schools typically have way more boys than girls. I
wonder why this is—or maybe that is why I am. My hypotheses include:
“Boys will be boys” and rowdy boys at that, parents are more inclined
to put them under a more authoritative rule than girls
Girls in Catholic school become distractions to boys in Catholic school
and, as mentioned, it is “more important” to ensure success in the
school for said rowdy boys
There is more pressure for success forced upon males in society,
another reason their education becomes “more important” than
females
It’s sad.
Yay, we let women vote on elections that don’t matter because the Electoral
College has ultimate rule, anyway!
Are there any women in the Electoral College? Tried to find the answer to
that question on the Internet and couldn’t.
So yeah, women totally have equal rights, right?
So many girls these days and I guess for all of humanity’s existence wear the
heaviest boots around all the time about themselves. There are expectations
men are held to, once again, to be successful. As a woman, you are expected
to allow a man to do whatever he feels necessary to achieve this success.
Your success doesn’t truly matter because it’s not taken all that seriously
simply because you don’t have a dick…
After leaving preschool and entering a new school, my outcast overcast
came with me. Catholic school was especially particular with gender
separation because of their strong beliefs in celibacy until marriage and
abstinence as birth control.
DON’T HAVE SEX,
KIDS.BUT EVERYTHING WE PUT ON YOUR SCREENS WILL INVOLVE ONLY THE
MOST ATTRACTIVE PEOPLE AND HALF OF THEM WILL BE HALF NAKED.
I never fit in with anyone because girls thought I was weird and boys thought
girls were weird so I was always the weirdest thing on the playground. Every
day on the playground would be me asking some girl if we could play
together and her telling me she could only play with one person a day and I
should ask to play with her tomorrow but she was always playing with the
same two girls so you know what I did?
I asked her every damn day.
And I’d end up on a swing.
And I imagine that’s where Shrimpie came along and ended that.
Thank God or whatever because I still think about her now and I just think of
how wonderful of a person she is and how she really was the best friend I
could have ever had. She got me a fucking Sega Genesis for Christmas once.
She knew me so well. It’s a shame I’ve lost all shame or maybe we would still
be friends.
It is important for kids to feel important, especially when they are young. I
think the only reason I survived is because I had at least one friend. I was
given Peppy at birth. We grew apart when I turned Goth. She has a kid now.
I’m really happy for her. Then, of course, was Shrimpie. She was a girl I could
be weird with. She got away with it better because she’s seriously the
fucking cutest but I’ve just never given a fuck. Because there was always
such a low number of students—especially females—all the girls generally
got along. But for some reason, I still felt like something was separating me
from everyone around me and at that time, I felt so alone. Now, I feel I was
not the only one to have felt that way. It was all so long ago; it’s hard to hold
grudges. It’s hard to remember any of it, really. I just remember that I really
hated it. It was constricting and boring and not at all friendly. I guess I am
the opposite of Catholic school.
Despite the fact that I sort of hated every minute of it, I truly appreciate the
education I received. I have to say that my mother and father spent their
money well. I am a smart kid. But I suppose that’s as far as it could take me.
It made me smart. It didn’t really teach me anything about the world. I didn’t
have cable. I mean, my Italian Grandma had cable that we watched all the
time, but all we watched were cartoons. I was always obsessed with Scooby-
Doo. My Polish Grandpa always encouraged me to be Velma, but I guess no
one expected me to end up looking like Daphne. I feel incredibly fortunate to
be both.
I have always been Lolly and I have always questioned everything and I
imagine that is why no one has ever liked me very much because I tend to
ask questions people have a hard time answering. My mother’s sisters would
take me and my cousins on “Trips Around The World” (but really it was
northern Michigan or Canada.) Even among my family, I felt ostracized. I may
have too much of an imagination, or I’ve always been paranoid, or I really do
ask way too many questions. I suppose that’s why Aunt California chose to
call me Lolly, like the Schoolhouse Rock song, “Lolly, Lolly, Lolly Get Your
Adverbs Here” as preformed by Buffalo Tom because we listened to
Schoolhouse Rock Rocks. It is a compilation of classic Schoolhouse Rock
songs covered by popular 90s bands. In addition to my fabulous Catholic
school education, I would attribute this album to my wealth of knowledge.
Music is a great way to teach kids. I retained every word to almost every
single one of those songs, which means I retained the information sung in
each song. And let me tell ya something else, I retained it way better than
the shit spit at me my whole life.
I’m also grateful I puked the religion out of my education. God is simply
another form of government. The government is not meant to tell people
how to live morally. It only tells us what happens if we do things it does not
agree with. We are written tickets or put in jail when we do things the
government tells us not to do. God banishes us to Hell if we don’t do what we
are told. Don’t worry though, even if you sin, as long as you say you’re sorry,
he’ll forgive you. If you confess to your sins and pray enough, you’ll totally
get into Catholic Heaven lol. What a lazy religion. We’re gonna set some
rules, ask you to follow them, but absolve you of your wrong doings as long
as you are willing to tell a priest what you gone done. Is that supposed to be
the deal breaker? The priest?
I’ll be honest, I told my priest the same list of the most innocent sins every
six months we went to confession after the second sacrament that is
reconciliation.
LOL “I lied to my parents, I fought with my siblings, I didn’t do my best in
school, and I don’t go to church every Sunday.” LY
Every six months, some extra priests came over to our church so the seven
and up crowd could confess our sins and cleanse our souls. For some reason,
I always had our priest. I love the guy, but why would I want to tell some
dude I see every Friday and often times more often than that all the terrible
things I had done as the child I was? Not that anything I did was all that
terrible. I was never one to fake sick or start fights. Hell, I was the one being
bullied; I wasn’t that mean of a kid. I think my darkest sins were merely
thoughts I kept to myself or things I would do when no one was looking that
people never really noticed. I guess I never felt much of a need to be honest
with someone who doesn’t actually care about what I do because they are
going to forgive me, anyway, but I didn’t really feel a need to be forgiven.
Why should I be sorry for what I’ve done? Why should I have to ask someone
else’s forgiveness if I can just tell God in prayer, right?
But man, did I love confession with Father. I’d give him my list of bullshit and
he’d ask me about my family. Love the Catholic Italians that love the
Catholic Church. He’d ask how my Italian Grandma and her sister were and if
my brother was feeling any better because his former Crohn’s disease had
him in the hospital a lot back that. It was always a pretty chill confession
session. I wonder if he ever knew I was lying about my sins.
LOL I don’t really give a fuck LY
I love how much freedom I have. I love that I have the opportunity to say
that. But I wish I was actually allowed to do whatever I want. I feel like a
childhood of being told what to do makes me not want to do what I’m told.
Once I left elementary school, it was no longer a handful of people telling me
what to do. I was now set free in the hands of society. And I still didn’t like
what I was being told. Questioning authority is one thing, but delving into the
questions of religious authority can be somewhat troubling on a young mind.
When I was in fourth grade, I had to face Death for the first time. Many
times. I don’t know how well I understood it. I remember catching a butterfly
and caging it in plastic with the girls I lived down the street from at my old
house. There were tons of nights I had captured tons of fireflies in Mason jars
and it never affected me when I found them dead in the morning. For some
reason, when I had this butterfly and it died, I got some heavy boots about it.
I don’t know why. Maybe I had never owned something as beautiful as a
butterfly. Maybe because I didn’t have as many butterflies as I had fireflies
and so I cared more about the butterfly. I don’t know, but I think that was the
first time I met Death personally. Or that I actually cared.
Some guy in my family died and everyone wanted me to go to the funeral
but I didn’t know this mother fucker. Sorry, no hate, but as a nine-year-old
kid, I don’t care to go to the funeral of someone I didn’t really know.
“Hey, I know you didn’t know him when he was alive, but you wanna see him
dead?”
…Nah, I’m good. Thanks, though. And because my cousin—my desire—went
and she’s younger than me, the ginger aunt had to give me shit for it. Cool,
bro. I was born with no fucks. Judge me harder.
She’ll always be my cousin, though she isn’t always my friend. Most people
don’t ask because in certain ways, we look alike. In many ways, we act alike.
But I always tell people when they do:
Her dad and the woman my grandma’s brother married were adopted by the same
people. I’ve know her our whole lives. What the fuck is a cousin to you?
Some October, my Italian Grandma’s brother died. I went to that funeral.
There were so many people there and they were all so sad. I didn’t cry. I felt
bad. I treasure my times spent on his farm, located across Mile Road from
my parents’ house—though it was gone before we got there. I can’t imagine
many kids in Suburbia can say they’ve taken a horse-driven buggy down that
road. So of course, I can. I’ll always love peacock feathers because every
time we would go to his house, he’d give us one from his peacocks. I will
always hate goats because of the time his goat Frosty dragged me by her
leash from Grandma’s half-way home down a pebbled, dirt road. Or was that
the other brother’s goat? Whatever, I am so happy to have these crazy
Italians in my life. But at the end of my Great Uncle’s life, he was bound to a
bed. A Parkinson’s vegetable. I didn’t cry at his funeral because he was old
and inactive. How sad can I be?
Everyone dies. Birth is a death sentence. Most people don’t want to die most
of the time, even if they feel like dying, sometimes. If someone lives to be
ninety years old, I’m not gonna be sad. I’m going to be happy they made it
that long. Especially when they were happy with their life. Shit, sorry. I
didn’t cry.
I did cry a week later at another uncle’s funeral. He was young and she is
even younger than him. It was sad to me, because they didn’t have kids or
anything. They didn’t have much time together, either. We spent time in
their house and they had such a nice house. He was tall and he’d pick us up
over his head and we’d scream, or we’d go upstairs to sit and dangle our
legs singing a nursery rhyme to which his reply was to grab our feet because
holy cow, he could reach our feet.
I don’t think I could even tell you all the funerals I’ve been to. At one point, I
prayed to God I would be the next to die because I was sick of seeing my
family so sad at all these funerals. Another Great Uncle passed not long after
that. I went to my dad’s cousin’s funeral on my tenth birthday. I have shed
so many tears at so many funerals. I have memories of funerals without a
clue of whose they were. I have been acquainted with Death for quite some
time now. But Death, seeming so random and evil, stuck himself right
between God and me. We haven’t been the same since.
In retrospect, I don’t think I could hold it against God if he was there for not
killing me off when I was nine. Good call, Whatever You Are. I’m very happy
to be alive. But I’ve always been told that when you pray, you get what you
ask for. I didn’t. I was upset. I think in fifth grade, I was pretty good with God
still. Or I faked it. I really have no memories of fifth grade. I’m not sure why. I
do remember one thing. I think it was fifth grade when we came across
evolution in our Science books. They told us evolution was a crazy theory
scientists believe that man came from monkeys.
And we moved on.
That’s what I can’t stand about Catholic school. How are you about to force
your religion down my throat repeatedly and not allow me to hear an
opposing view? Because it’s more logical than yours? Are you afraid I might
believe what they have to say about that, is that why you keep it a secret
from us? And if that is the case, why do you believe what you believe?
Charles Darwin is one of the most brilliant minds to have existed. To say his
life’s work in a sentence—“man came from monkeys”—is complete
disrespect and for that, I just can’t respect. I’m sorry. That’s not okay with
me. It disgusts me that people are so close-minded, they can’t peacefully
disagree. They just want to be right. I’m all about debate, I’m open for
discussion, but there are two sides to every story. Fucking listen.
Or, fuck listening.
Of course, I knew nothing of Darwin in the fifth grade. I went back to
believing God or whatever. It’s too bad you can’t teach children about vibes.
Maybe you can, but I think that would also create the opportunity to fake
vibes, and that could be potentially fatal. Or maybe if people were aware of
vibes, they would put in effort to make sure they had good ones and not
such crooked ones.
Other than my social inabilities and intellectual dilemmas and spiritual crisis,
I had a pretty normal childhood. I liked a lot of the things I like now. I have
always loved music, but I listened to a bunch of shit back then. I thought the
radio was the best thing ever, you know? No, that shit sucks. I didn’t know
any better. It was cool, though, because I started going to concerts when I
was in second grade. I saw the boy bands, the pop stars, and even attended
what would have to be considered my first music festival: The All That Music
and More fest. Fuck yeah. I was pretty young when I discovered my love for
roller coasters, too. I was destined for the Life I’ve lived.
My sister and I sharing a room had a pretty strong influence on me growing
up. I adapted her style and taste, as any little sister would. The difference
was she was good at things we did and I wasn’t. It’s funny, because I’m
nothing like her now. But you can totally tell we’re sisters. Part of me wishes
the influence would have stuck for my parents’ sake. My sister is Queen of
the Good Fairies or a straight Angel. I’m the fuckin’ anti-Christ.
I took piano lessons for a really long time. I loved my piano teacher, but man.
I am so terrible at piano. Seven years and so much money for pretty much
no reason at all. Sorry, mom. Sorry, dad. Add it to my life tab of servitude
like everything else you’ve ever done for me. The dance classes paid off,
though. I can groove like there isn’t a tomorrow because we’ll never know if
there will be one!
I played mad sports. I played softball from ages six to eleven. At ten, I added
soccer and basketball to the equation. Catholic Youth Organization Sports
had no try-outs so pretty much everyone in Catholic school played sports. It
made me hate girls even more. I wasn’t that great at sports, but I did like the
idea of equality they represented.
I loved all the holidays because I love family time. The only time I saw my
cousins were at the parties we had. I still thought no one liked me, especially
because everyone loves my sister, but I had fun. It was nice when my desire
would be around so when my sisters would pair up and leave me out, I would
have someone I could hang out with.
My favourite place to be was up north. My dad’s family cottage, which was
actually a trailer with an add-on, is where my desire and I became friends.
It’s been the only time I’ve ever been on a four-wheeler and we would always
stop for the sweetest Native American souvenirs. However, I liked my dad’s
friend’s big ass cottage better. My dad stayed friends with the guys he
became friends with at his high school job. I think that’s so cool. They’re all
so much alike, too. I hope I get to keep the friends I have forever, but my
track record isn’t looking too good. Every summer, they bring their families
together for a week up north.
I loved being on the speed boat or cruisin’ off a rope on a tube behind it. I
loved being outside, day and night. I’ve always been able to appreciate
nature. Kids with technology in their hands must not give a shit about
nature. Wow, isn’t that kind of scary? These kids who will be here when all of
us are gone will probably use up the rest of what hasn’t been used up of this
dying planet because they don’t spend any time with it. They are too
concentrated on the human world to think about the fact that it is part of a
world beyond humans.
Dude. We are floating in space and all you care about is
yourself?
I think having a creator helped me appreciate creation. I guess there’s a perk
to religious life, but I am not about that life.
***
For eight years I went to church every Friday. Eight years. Some weekends, I
even went Saturday or Sunday. At a time in my life, I was an alter server and
everything. Eight years I followed every rule set before me by God’s men.
Eight years I swallowed all the bullshit placed upon my desk. Eight years I
was concerned with what people thought of me. Eight years I was terrified of
authority. Eight years I was brainwashed into being a slate for absurd
writings from church walls to manifest an idea thought by those who fear the
unknown to attempt to preserve innocence in children.
Well, six.
“Knew she’d have to come up soon for air”
AN IMPENDING DOOM
“AHHHHH!!!!!!”
Shocking news alert: I was a Goth kid in middle. Oh my god, no way. Goth
kid. How shocking.
I guess I bring my misery upon myself. I’m sorry I decided to care about
things no one else decided to care about. My bad.
Low and behold, when you hold back one that refused to be left behind, they
will rebel.
So I already didn’t like the uniform I was forced to wear. I wasn’t particularly
fond of the rules I was forced to follow. And as I got older, I was really
beginning to question the faith they were attempting to instill. It also didn’t
help that middle school in a pre-school to eighth grade Catholic school is
nothing like middle school. It’s like elementary school, but you are taking
care of elementary school kids half the time.
I can’t even be mad about that, though. I’m tellin’ you, there are benefits to
that shit. I am notorious for playing mommy and taking care of everyone. In
a way, I was raised to look after those who needed me to. I was taught to
help others when they needed it. I am okay with not being completely and
entirely selfish. The difference between me and Catholics really is God.
Another thing that got me during this time in the ever-treacherous middle
school was the world being in such bad shape. They always sent us home
with cardboard collection cards to hold quarters that were to be donated to
whichever organization’s names were on the back. When I was young, these
things made me happy. I felt like I was making the biggest difference in the
world. That is a feeling I recommend every child feeling, even if it isn’t
entirely true. I mean, that’s the thing, it totally is. You are here; there is a
reason for you. Simple as that. But as previously discussed, most people
never figure out their reason. They settle on, “I’m not good enough” and get
lost in the crowd of destruction. It’s unfortunate. We could all have a huge
impact on this planet if only we cared about it, or each other. Or anything.
Anything besides money, which seems to be the only thing that helps any.
Something I’ve never had all that much of and yet, so much more than so
many.
There were nights of my youth of sixth grade that I would cry myself to sleep
because I knew I was unable to change the world. All I wanted to do was an
impossible task. No matter how much change I collected, no matter how
many kids were supposedly fed, there was still nothing I could do about the
hate of the world. They say because God exists, the Devil, too. There is
Heaven awaiting those who follow God and Hell for those who do not. What
the Catholic Church did not exactly account for is the Heavens and Hells on
Earth. That’s the funniest thing about the thing. Heaven is in the sky and Hell
is beneath the Earth: As far away from each other as humanly possible.
At this fine time, I was beginning to think maybe I was a Satan-worshipper as
so many assumed I was. I didn’t look too far into it, because it seemed as
though I was not. Just disgruntled and confused. I still didn’t really sin. I
rebelled in personality and style, not juvenile delinquency. The more
discontent I became, the more Goth I appeared and the more morbid I felt. I
contemplated strangling myself in the shower, once, because I was so
fucking curious about this God deal. I wanted to know then and there what
was real and what was right. But I didn’t want anyone seeing me naked, so I
decided against it. Upon exiting the shower, the thought seemed to have
slipped my mind. At that time, anyway. I was more curious about Life than
Death, is what it came down to. I wanted Life to get better before I decided
to die.
It just took a long ass time for it to get better. By seventh grade, I didn’t
want to be atheist, but I had completely given up on Catholicism. For a
moment, I thought maybe I was Christian. That wasn’t cutting it. Then, with
the little information I knew, I wanted to study Buddhism. My mother told me
when I turned eighteen and moved out of her house I could change my
religion. It’s weird because I’m almost certain she’s not religious, but I don’t
really know. It’s not something we ever really talked about. Still don’t.
Politics as well. I suppose this is how I became so radical. I was getting so
sick of St. D that I almost went to Riley. I’m pretty glad I didn’t do it. I was
also starting to hang out with Ali Sun and her friends a lot more. She was sort
of my introduction to a world outside of Catholic school.
At this time, I was phasing out of Goth and into “Scene.” Oh, the Scene
years.
This was a time when Scene girls did not look like raccoons or only like bands
whose lead singers you can’t understand. They (or we) liked neon colours,
plastic barrettes, long strings of fake pearls, flats, and polka dots. But we’re
secretly grunge and we’ll always love plaid more. By the time eighth grade
hit, I was so done with having to pretend I was Catholic. I was now
considering myself Agnostic. Ali Sun confessed the feelings she’s had about
Nature and a connection with something she couldn’t understand. I had felt
this, but I always attributed this thing to being God. She never believed in
God. Suddenly, we found ourselves on a page we couldn’t read.
***
Middle school is a very important time of self-discovery. Something made me
decide to spell my name with a “y”. It makes sense; I never stop asking,
“Why?” Why not have a “y” in my name? I began to really think about who I
was, what I believed, and what I liked. It’s unfortunate that children seem to
be the cruelest in middle school. Some grow up and grow out of it, some
jump deeper into it once they get to high school.
It’s sad that there is no sense of unity at this time. This is when cliques begin
to form. This is when kids start to feel the pain of being out-casted. This is a
time when we physically begin to change and the change is the most drastic
of our young lives because we’ve never had to deal with any “real” issues
before then. Well, if you are granted the precious gift of a childhood, anyway
—as I was fortunate enough to have. For some reason, when we hate
ourselves, we hate everyone else. I am a prime example of this statement. I
would get so sad about people thinking I was weird, or being fat and
generally not pretty. I hated how different I felt all the time because people
couldn’t accept me for who I was—that Gothic Catholic. I was sad about
some of the stupidest shit. I hated myself for caring. Everyone was giving
their fucks and I had no fucks to give but all I could care about was why
people were giving a fuck. It left me in such heavy boots. I wanted to change
the world. There was no way my self-conscious self was going to do that. I
couldn’t rationalize it so well, then… It just pissed me the fuck off because I
couldn’t figure out why I was caring about all the things they never gave
fucks about.
I have always had a temper, but it wasn’t until middle school that I felt
angry. We all became less cute and far more unattractive, so my personality
was as unattractive as I was. I didn’t care and I have never had a fuck to
give. The only reason a person doubts, their self is if the world around them
does it first. And again, everyone hates themselves in middle school, so all
this doubt is flying around the classrooms of middle school halls. It makes for
so much hate. I felt every last drop of hate these kids had. For whatever
reason, it seemed like they really didn’t like me. Maybe everyone feels that
way in middle school. And that’s why they are mostly mean or whatever.
Or would that make too much sense?
Maybe no matter what you do, people will be people. Perhaps there isn’t
anything we can do to prevent kids from being kids.
But wait.
Maybe there is something we can do.
Could we love?
People think it’s a really silly idea. For some reason or another, it’s an
absolutely ridiculous to believe in the simple things such as love. Ideas like
peace and unity have evolved to be mocked by popular society because we
thrive on fear and fighting. The compassionate ways of the alternative
“hippie” counter-culture is so widely disrespected, even though it exists to
show respect. It’s almost ironic that something with such pure intentions can
be so misconstrued. I suppose the mushroom cloud of drug smoke above it
gives society the bad taste.
But really, what do you think about that? What is actually so wrong with not
wanting to be as wasteful as we Americans tend to be? What’s wrong with
wanting to take care of your insides and outsides? What is so wrong with
wanting to share good health and good vibes with the people around you?
Why are people so against a movement about people? That doesn’t make
any sense to me. Because some of them take acid? The thing is, I didn’t
know shit about anything in middle school. I listened to shitty music and
shopped at Hot Topic and cried all the time or whatever. But even then I
wanted the same things I want now. I wanted to see the starving bellies full; I
wanted to see homeless sheltered. I wanted to see wars end and hate
disintegrate. I’m sorry my beliefs and dreams evolved my personality and
style. It doesn’t hurt that I was born with more swag than anyone in America.
LOL… LY.
Middle school was a time I realized how much I appreciate music. I loved
shitty pop punk bands and other crap like that and I don’t really listen to any
of it anymore, but it was my life at the time, and music has remained my life
since.
When you spend a lot of time alone, music often becomes important to you
because you can feel as though you are maybe not so alone. I have always
liked the music I could most relate to. When I was very young, I liked the
songs on the radio because I didn’t have much going on, but I liked music. I
like the Schoolhouse Rock Rocks songs because they were more fun than
school, and I liked In Your Eyes a lot because I guess my dad would play it
and I just loved it. It wasn’t until middle school that I developed my own
taste for music, as opposed to listening to whatever was played on the radio
stations my sister would listen to.
Granted, my taste was what the Goth and Emo kids liked because we could
all relate to one another… I guess… I was sad about not being pretty and in
love or whatever because we were all heartbroken, in a way, but about
nothing. I was really into the idea of overthrowing authority, but never had
the balls to cast a stone. That pretty much defines pop punk, right? Wishing
you were punk enough to do anything about your angst but being too
concerned with pop culture and acceptance to do it?
I still love The Format. I still love Brand New. I still love Something Corporate.
I still love Motion City Soundtrack. I still love Flogging Molly. Pretty much
everything else I listened to either sucked or didn’t mature as much as I
have. It’s almost like, if I could relate to your music in middle school, you
probably need to grow up or I’m not going to continue to listen to your
music. Lyrics are very important to me. And performance is everything. I
thought Avril was pretty cool until I saw her shit on the All That stage. It
made me question everything I’d heard.
My favourite band in middle school was easily Maryz Eyez. You’ve probably
never heard of them, but they were cool as fuck. I saw them for the first time
at the Suburbia Recreational Center, a former high school. My siblings and
cousins all became obsessed with me because they were such cool dudes
and because they were from K-zoo, we went to all of their shows that were
within an hour of us. And because none of us drove, really, we had a
chaperone at every single bar show we went to, just about. Hilarious, really,
but they were really cool about having young and obsessive teeny-boppin’
fans. They played in my backyard for my sister’s sweet sixteen. The best
part about that was some little girl a few blocks over hearing them and
telling her mom she heard them and her mom thinking she was crazy. I bet it
made her little world to be in my backyard with them! They go by
Trenchtown now and they have a song in a video game. Fuck yeah, boys.
Middle school was also full of sports for me. Varsity CYO, what up! I enjoyed
playing sports. I didn’t enjoy any of the bitches I played with or against. I
would get angrier at the cattiness of the girls on the field or the sheer
stupidity of the inability for my teammates to take direction or work as a
team than I did at the sport itself that was going on. By the time I was in
eighth grade, I dropped basketball and haven’t been on a team since.
I think this was a time I started to realize how much I didn’t like everyone
else. I didn’t really know why. To be fair, I didn’t really like myself, either. I
think other people didn’t like me because I didn’t like myself and I didn’t like
myself because I didn’t know who I was. I’m so glad I went to public school,
or I would have never figured it out. I’m so glad I took acid, or I would have
never figured anything out.
“Operator? Can you help me?”
THE DISCOVERY OF UNIVERSAL CONSCIOUSNESS
“The Universe will have its way”
Included are quotes of things people said about me for a Creative Writing project
my junior year to give you other opinions about Lauryn because I think they’re on-
point and hilarious.
It always starts with acid, doesn’t it?
I suppose it didn’t really start with acid. Something did, but not high school.
After putting up a fit and a half for three years, I successfully avoided All-Girl
Catholic High School and became a Spartan at Parliament High School: Home
of the Cockiest Suburbia Football Team and Most Infamous Suburbia Whores.
I imagine my switch from St. D to Parliament was a similar feeling to being a
traveler in another country: Culture Shock. School Culture Shock. It was
pretty nerve-racking. I dumped my eighth grade boyfriend and chopped all
my hair off about a month before my first day. If I really didn’t want people
to think I was a lesbian, I guess I shouldn’t have made these decisions. Or
perhaps if I really was a lesbian, I would have gone to the All-Girl school.
Either way, all 2,000+ of them believed it right off the bat.
It wasn’t my intention to make everyone think I was a lesbian, but I didn’t
really care that they did. I was okay with the idea. They weren’t. But I didn’t
give a single fuck to Parliament. I didn’t come with one and I wasn’t looking
for one. I was going from weak Goth to weak Scene to being over stupid fads
and not really knowing what I liked but I have always loved plaid and every
colour of the fucking rainbow. So that must make me a lesbian. OI Vey. It
was a long four years of my life, but not nearly as long as the two years that
followed.
“Lauren is a beautiful swan smothered in plaid and denim. Maybe one day she will
allow herself to breathe.” Mad Scientist
I kept quite my freshman year. I rode the bus every day. I sat in the front.
There was this punk kid senior that sat in the front, too, and it was always a
comfort to know I wasn’t the only one that didn’t care about the bullshit of
the back of the bus being cooler than the front. Congratulations, you are as
far away from authority as possible within this Twinkie. Fuck up all the shit in
the ten minutes you have to fuck shit up in a vehicle that isn’t yours. Oh, you
rebels.
There was some girl that looked like the bad ass inside me. She always had
the coolest fucking shoes, but I think they may have been the coolest part
about her. But she talked to me, so I can’t hate, because most people didn’t
talk to me. The other kids on my bus stop just reminded me that I was a
“dyke” every time I got off the bus. Cool, bro. See you in the morning.
“Lauren is a cynical bitch.” Gorgeous Emo Girlfriend
My first week of high school, I witnessed some hard bullying and it wigged
me the fuck out. It gave me ultra heavy boots. This stupid bitch and her
friends grouped around this really special boy who was nothing but nice to
everyone and this bitch mocked him, kicked him, and laughed in his face. I
didn’t do anything about it and I hated myself for not standing up for him,
you know I really kick myself for that. I didn’t have any friends and I was
more concerned about what people thought of me than doing the right thing
and standing up for someone who shouldn’t have been down in the first
place. I was scared to speak up because I didn’t know who was listening. It’s
like I was given the fucks I could have swore I got rid of.
You know how I know that boy was special? Because my senior year, I had a
class with him. I got to know this boy and he was special because he was the
sweetest boy. He never had it in him to do a thing wrong to anyone and to
me, that’s more special that everyone. I wish I was as pure and good as this
boy, who truly wanted to be friends with anyone. I have too much hate in me
to be as good of a person as he was and that it what makes him special. I
became his friend and this time, when I saw someone pick on him, I stood up
for him. Some smart ass at the table laughed at something he did, so I made
the smart ass feel like a dumb ass. I just wish I would have done it three
years sooner.
It’s very sad that high school can have this sort of effect on people. I suppose
we all react differently to everything.
I couldn’t open my locker because I had never had one before, and I didn’t
really know how to. I lugged six books and my personal notebook (because I
always have paper for thought scratching) around in my backpack for most
of the first semester. I was the kid with the backpack. We had hooks at St. D.
I’m not used to your customs and freedoms!
I didn’t really care to know anyone I saw, but I would respond to just about
anyone that talked to me. That’s how I became friends with a girl that
wanted me to join spirit club and a girl obsessed with Twilight (though this
was long before the undeserving craze—props). They’re always nice girls,
you know? Over time, I made casual friends with a variety of people. In
reality, as pure as their intentions may have been, they were other students
that made life at Parliament more bearable. We never hung out, we weren’t
that close, and none of them truly liked me all that much. Or, if they did,
they didn’t know me well enough not to. We weren’t really friends because
that’s how high school is. Brought together to be scattered apart.
There are some people I still talk to that I met in high school. Of everyone,
my best friend is the only one I talk to on a regular basis. I’m okay with that.
I still keep in fading touch with a select few others, but for the most part, I
won’t see most of them until I get to Hell. I don’t care, like, at all. I think it’s
so funny how people miss high school so much. Maybe if you didn’t enjoy the
first time, you wouldn’t want to be doing it again. Or, perhaps, if you had
anything to look forward to in life, you wouldn’t wish your life was still high
school. However, most people love high school. They over-glorify the bullshit
that is over-glorified bullshit and for some reason, people are really obsessed
with this stuff. I don’t get it, man. I guess I never cared about the things kids
care about in high school, so how they still care about it is beyond me.
I never cared about what I wore and definitely didn’t care about what anyone
else was wearing. I let people write all over my jeans—yeah, I used to wear
jeans. Weird as fuck—because I didn’t care what my clothes looked like.
What is so wrong with added personality? Does it take away class? Who
needs class when you’re in class? Sitting in a chair attached to a surface…
Such uncomfortable and yet oddly comforting desks we had to sleep on or
write on or eat on or, oh. Learn on.
[I just hate how much people care about what other people look like. It seems like
such an impractical thing to judge somebody on. I’m not in it for your body, girl.
I’m in it for your brain. But that soul better come a little corrupted or you won’t
be able to handle this mind fuck.]
I didn’t have real friends so I definitely didn’t have a group I belonged to,
which is why I never cared for the organization and formation of cliques. It all
seems so stupid to me. And even though there were a variety of people at
hand, I still didn’t really like any of them. I have never been one to judge you
on the way you dress or even the way you act because sometimes, well, I
always look very strange to people so I have absolutely no hate to strange
people. I love it, can’t get enough. I know I am the most obnoxious kid on the
playground some days and other days I should be left in the dark and creepy
corner I’m in. I understand that each day is a new one and we cannot
promise anything of ourselves or anyone else. I am okay with you the way
you are so long as it is you that you are.
I do not like to judge, but I will be the first to tell you that I am very critical.
You can leave God to be your judge, but how do you even know what He
wants if you don’t know the guy?
I am drawn to people not by what they look like or how they act like, but
their views and beliefs and whether or not theirs either: coincide with mine,
or are logical enough to be plausible. I think a lot. I think so much I think it is
a problem, sometimes. Always have. I like other brains. I’ll talk to just about
anyone, unless they’re really stupid and it’s totally unbearable. (Biiiiitch.) I
thoroughly enjoy those who can hold a conversation at my pace, though,
which is a lot faster of a pace than your typical conversation. The Mad
Scientist and the Coolest Conservative happen to be two dudes that run with
me better than anyone else, and that’s why I hope they will always be my
good friends. I’ve noticed over time it is very rare a girl can keep up. In fact,
they don’t usually get past the first six months of conversation. It’s okay. I
have my best friend.
This distance between me and fellow students shortened the one between
me and my teachers. I imagine kids in my classes would refer to me as
teacher’s pet behind my back. I’m sorry I think the adult in the room is cooler
than all you snobs in the seats. I didn’t kiss ass; I just know how to respect
elders. I wasn’t tight with all my teachers, either. Only the ones I shared a
common bond with. More often than not, that bond was Peter Gabriel. It was
interesting on both ends because there weren’t any other high schoolers that
liked Peter Gabriel, so it was fascinating for the teacher to meet one that did
(“ha ha, weird kid”) but it was great for me to meet any other human being
that liked Peter Gabriel (“fucking coolest teacher ever…”).
And sometime in History class, I met my partner. My REALUV of all loves. It
was kind of love at first sight without the lust and simply admiration—mind
you, the feeling goes unchanged. He has done some off-the-wall things and
held his head high through every last second of them. That, to me, is what I
consider fucking fabulous. He hates when I tell him this, but he’s absolutely
gorgeous. And his mind is a cryptic, broken maze that some people can’t get
through but I find so much fun. I love when he feels like himself because I
feel like he’s the Mad Hatter.
I wore my watermelon Format shirt and he showed me his ants. If it weren’t
for him, my teachers, and my art class, I probably would have given up. If
not on Life altogether, most certainly Spartan City. LOL those kids suck,
dude. LY.
The teachers weren’t exactly perfect; there were just enough of them that
were more than good enough to compensate for those who lacked…
everything… I didn’t learn anything about Geometry. The assholes of
Parliament High School tortured him so much I had to sleep through it. I got
to Algebra 2 and felt like a real dumbass because I couldn’t reference that
part of my life. I didn’t care that much, though, because my Algebra 2
teachers were bitches, anyway. You shouldn’t let a science teacher teach art,
either. By the time I was a senior, they stopped letting her. Art is emotional,
science is mathematical. Radical and almost polar opposite. Or art stands
between religion and science. I don’t know, but you can’t teach someone to
be an artist and you can’t drill techniques into someone to make them one.
You are or you aren’t.
I guess I’m an artist.
People have always thought that about me, but I never really thought of
myself as one. After having an art class every year and getting to high school
to see I wasn’t as good as most of the “art kids” at Parliament, I figured I
only liked to paint because I was taught to. So I gave up on it. After failing on
a canvas a few times, I stopped painting. In reality, I was trying too hard to
be good at it because the best art is made without thought and solely
feeling. I wasn’t able to use the mechanics that were taught to me over time,
so I thought I was no good. I thought I was like everyone else because not
everyone is an artist, but everyone takes art classes.
My mom and the counselors at Parliament really pushed for me to be in the
Art Club. At this time, I wasn’t picking up brushes unless I was being told to. I
had little interest in pretending I thought I was any good at painting
anymore, even if everyone had always told me so. I wasn’t feelin’ it. Why
add the unnecessary pressure of competitive feelings at a time I felt like a
loser? I was much more into writing, and much more concerned with being in
Accelerated English. And even though my Catholic school education actually
put me at an advantage, I was unable to get it. They couldn’t compare my
smarts on books to their kids’ smarts on books, so they assumed I had to
relearn the English language as they do in English 9. I guess I can say I’ve
read To Kill A Mocking Bird, and I guess that’s one of those books everyone
should read.
It’s funny that fourth hour was my favourite class because lunch was my
least favourite part of the day.
There are two cafeterias in Parliament: The North Cafeteria and the South
Cafeteria. The North Cafeteria consisted of long, rectangular tables for the
yuppies, jocks, rich kids, and wish-they-were-rich-jocks kids. The South was a
bunch of small round tables for the rest of us. I’d sit at any random table
each day with any random kids who didn’t eat with many other people.
Sometimes, I was alone. It didn’t bother me that much. I could eat and write
and stuff and it was okay. Most of the time, I was lucky enough to have a
shining star to sit with; but of course, I didn’t know how lucky I was until I
was three years too late.
Stars burn forever in my memory.
I hated lunch so much because I still hated high school and I still didn’t know
anyone I liked, really. There was no one that truly interested me except for
my future art punk boyfriend and I never saw him. The worst part about
lunch wasn’t even not having anyone to sit with. That didn’t really bother
me. It never bothered me to be alone before, not like it does now. What
really bummed me out some heavy boots was when kids would take chairs
from my table. Sometimes, this would be the first person to talk to me that
day and all they’d be saying was,
“Hey, can I have this?”
And I wouldn’t say,
“Well, shit. Does it look like I’m expecting a full lunch? Fucking take it.
Fucking take three. I don’t give a fuck because no one wants to take me.”
I always said yes and write down how I really felt.
One time, a counselor made me eat lunch with a girl in my English class. It
was one of the more awkward experiences of that year. She showed me a
picture of the girl that felt bad enough for me to make me feel like I had
friends but I didn’t recognize her. She was in the class I was pulled out of to
be told I was going to eat lunch with her, and I still didn’t recognize her. I
wanted no part of this, but I’ve never been good at saying no about
anything. The only person I had any interest in being friends with was the
long-haired boy across the room.
So I became a Heater Kid only it’s a bench at Parliament.
You may think you don’t know what a heater kid is, but you do. Or you did in
high school, at the very least. I refer to them as such because in the Hills,
they collected by the heater on the wall during lunch. At Parliament, we
found us a bench. Fuck both yo cafeterias. I’ll be in the hallway with the
sideshow freaks, bitches!
This was the first time I had enjoyed lunch and high school in general. I felt
like I finally found a place I could belong and that was with all the other
people that didn’t belong. It felt so good to be surrounded by kids who didn’t
give a fuck like me. This was when I became friends with Machete, the
werewolf. As it turns out, we went to the same preschool. He’s pretty sure
he’s the kid that pushed me off the world. He felt really bad about it. I lied to
him about being Jewish, so when I made it my New Year’s Resolution to stop
lying, I told him. It devastated him because I was the only Jew he knew and
he liked to have a representative of all demographics. We called it even after
that.
That was one of the only resolutions I’ve ever stuck to. And this one of not
speaking to you.
I lied a lot when I was in high school. Nobody knew who I was, so I could be
anything. I never lied about anything major, just stuff like being Jewish or
Canadian or a lesbian. I had fun. Come on, I was miserable and it was
entertaining to know something someone didn’t know, even if it was just
about myself. Well, I love who I am now and I have no reason to lie. Unless
it’s my family or authority, I’m not gonna lie to you. Isn’t that how we got
here?
The rest of my days were as dreary as ever. It seemed as though nothing got
better. I already hated high school and people were making me hate it more
and more every day. I’m so grateful for my cousin. I called her every day
after school and we’d talk on our house phones for hours. This is how we
became vegetarians. This is how we bitched to be calm. This is how we
managed to survive being in two different high schools. We would write
notes to each other while we were in school and give them to one another on
the weekends when we’d hang out. Or sometimes, we’d go a couple weeks
and hand over some weird shit on paper. In addition to the notes I wrote my
casual girlfriends at school and my cousin with her friends, I also wrote to no
one or myself or unknowingly the Universe in a composition notebook to
really get all my frustration out of me.
I’m so happy I gave up on painting and switched to writing. I needed to write
so much more than I needed to paint. A picture is worth a thousand words
but alas, says nothing. I was getting backed up with my own thoughts,
surrounded by thousands of ears that did not wish to hear them. If it weren’t
for these exchanges of letters or my goddamn notebook, there is no way I
would have made it through high school. In fact, I think if I would have been
a painter, I probably would have killed myself. It would have been too quiet
for the noise inside my head.
During high school, I had wanted to go to Kool High in the Hills. In retrospect,
I’m glad no one allowed me to do that. My punk love taught me enough
about my peers and art to make surviving Parliament a possibility. If it
weren’t for him taking me under his wing and being real with my naïve and
curious young mind, I would have probably just overdosed by the end of high
school. And I can’t really imagine what my taste in music would be, or what I
would have evolved into. He fed the middle school punk inside me and
without him, I’d be a total fuckin’ hippie.
I had a terrible reputation in Kool, anyway. But I guess that wasn’t until my
next year…
Sophomore year was by no means good, but it was a tremendous
improvement from the year before. I guess when you are no longer the
bottom of the caste system, you become more inclined to doing and being
more than you were before. I guess. Sophomores are just as dumb as
freshman—if not dumber. For whatever reason, this fifteen / sixteen-year-old
crowd come equipped with a huge ego. They make it painfully obvious that
they are no longer freshmen because it’s the greatest shit in the world to not
be the shit under a shoe and that’s all freshmen are. I actually like
sophomores less than I like freshman. High school doesn’t quite matter until
junior year if not senior year. I mean… High school doesn’t really matter at
all. It’s just high school.
Maybe I’m just bitter. I finally got involved in extracurricular activity. I never
tried too hard to figure out what I wanted, but I found myself on stage crew
because of my best friend. I also joined Students Environmentally Active
because my fellow butch bitches on crew, though we weren’t that butch
then. I was happy to be doing things that interested me, such as being a part
of a production or pretending like I could save the planet by recycling paper,
picking plastic bottles out of trash cans, and not showering as often as other
people. Woo. Either way, I was happy to be a part of something and my
parents and counselors were happy that I was a part of anything. Even if I
was a part of groups of the uncoolest kids or whatever and it lead to me
having some dirty hair and the worst locker ever.
“Lauren’s hair could supply enough polish to make your car shine.” My First
Heartbreaker
By winter I hated Christmas more than Parliaments and sported a plethora of
grandparents’ sweaters found from a very lost decade of the 80s but then
again—when aren’t we lost?
It was also the time I found the courage to start dabbling in the pleasures
frowned upon by our dear little society. It was during one-acts of my
sophomore year that I smoked pot for the first time. It’s really hilarious to me
that the first time and place I smoked weed was at Parliament after hours.
The punk took me out to the ravine we’d go to smoke cigarettes and he told
me he was going to… “Smoke smoke.”
We had no set changed for one-acts, so I smoked half of a joint with him and
a group of delinquents that happened to have been out there. I’m pretty sure
one of those said delinquents went on to kill an innocent human being
drinking and driving... I went inside. The first person I saw was my chemistry
teacher. That was probably the best part about the whole thing. I laughed at
the things that weren’t all that funny during the play and almost fell asleep.
Unfortunately for everyone I know, I enjoyed being stoned. I formed a habit
of smoking once a month for a few months. Then it became twice a month…
Once a week…
It’s interesting to discover a network of people through Mary Jane. It brought
me closer to people I was social with in class but didn’t hang out with outside
of school. The best example is ma nigga MacNCheeze. I had English with
him. He was always cool with me even though I really wasn’t cool. We never
hung out because I was some good kid, but when he found out I was on his
level, we chilled. We weren’t friends until after high school and I don’t think I
have a bigger supporter of my rap career. He’s always been there. One of
those dudes, you know?!
I hung out with my cousins and her girlfriends, which is how I came to realize
that I couldn’t be a girl even when I tried. I went to parties and drove around
with them, giggling and singing and being Disney princesses. Something
about it really warmed my female heart, but it wasn’t something I could do
forever. I’d get drunk and be an idiot and it wasn’t some life I’d choose to
live. Plus, none of them smoked weed—though I wasn’t a pothead until junior
year. That’s when my life and I really began coming together.
The Mad Hatter and I were in the same place but in different space. We had
both been smoking pot occasionally and really quite enjoyed it but didn’t
really know anyone that was smokin’ it. We talked about the discussion of
drugs in health class. We decided mushrooms would be cool, too, but we
didn’t know how to get them or anything. It’s a good thing, because we
weren’t ready for them. As for Mary Jane: She was just the girl we needed.
He knew more people than I did. We were still very innocent but we knew we
were destined for catastrophe with smiles on our faces. He taught me how to
pull off not giving a fuck. I didn’t have fucks to give, but I wore it with anger.
He showed me how to not give a fuck and smile.
We. Just want to have. Fun.
We decided our goal of the summer before our junior year would have to be
Lollapalooza. I couldn’t even explain how significant this event was to my
life, but here I am about to try and explain it, anyway.
LOLLAPALOOZA ’08: THE FIRST BIG KID FESTIVAL
Somehow, my partner and I ended up at his kitchen table with our mothers the
night before day one getting permission to go to this festival. I never in my naïve
dreams thought this was going to happen. I didn’t think my parents would ever let
me get on a plane alone with someone viewed as more irresponsible than I;
especially not when fleeing to a music festival they nor I knew much about. But
somehow, we talked them into it. I feel like we didn’t even put in that much effort.
We didn’t put much effort into anything. Ever. That’s what made our whirlwind so
much fun. This trip was no exception.
We made a successful forty-five-minute flight to Chicago a plane of flying colours. It
was my third time—first by air. I drove with my aunt and cousins once. That was
fun. SEA took a train to the Green Festival there. Also fun. But this was easily the
best one.
My partner’s mother and sister were to meet us there on a flight scheduled later
that day. We left the airport in a cab and the driver was some chill mother fucker
with a sick accent. We talked music and he and my partner were on the same page
about some electronic but all I was caring about was seeing Perry Farrell. They got
to talking about night clubs because he was very curious about this scene, or even
more so the rave scene rather than simply the club scene. I just wanted to see Perry
Farrell. He recommended we try some such cool night club somewhere or other
right outside the city and I didn’t care because I was gonna see Perry Farrell. We got
to the hotel and checked our bags because we couldn’t get in the room until his
mother arrived. Why she would have rather had the two of us roaming the streets of
Chicago to being in a hotel room is beyond me…
We walked to Central Park where Lollapalooza was already happening. Before we
could even get to a line, we were delivered the darkest of clouds over our sunniest
day: It was sold out.
We hadn’t thought about this at all. I was told it was the first time it had ever been
sold out. We hadn’t planned for this. It may have once been a thought that we
didn’t pay much attention to it because we figured it wouldn’t happen that way but
oh, it most certainly did happen that way. Our hopes and dreams were stomped on
and killed in that very moment. We, like many others, begged and pleaded for
wristbands but we, like many others, were very unsuccessful. I got to talking to this
one dude, ma fuckin’ dude, and he saved our weekend. He was only concerned
about seeing Radiohead that night, so he was looking for a ticket and not a
wristband. He knew of some place that had no tickets, but five or six wristbands—
essentially the last five or six wristbands.
I called my partner over to us in excitement and he recited the information he gave
to me to my partner. I told him to call his mom, tell her it was sold out, have her call
this place, and buy the wristbands with her credit card so we could assure them as
our own by the time we got there. Instead, he came up with his own plan:
“I’m just gonna go…”
So he left. I stayed outside of Central Park with the heaviest boots I’d ever wore, all
sorts of panic about being stranded in Chicago in my head with a family picnicking
and a dude taking pictures of us. The defeat was defeating me. My partner was
going back to the hotel to get cash out of our bags, but I had our checked-bags slip.
I tried to call him, but my piece of shit at the time wouldn’t make phone calls. In my
world, we were totally fucked.
I don’t know how much time had passed, but it felt like a fucking eternity. After
sitting around being unable to do anything, I finally saw my partner. In our thrift
store rave gear, it was hard to miss each other. I began walking in his direction. He
was running and he had the most horrible look on his face, so I started running with
a horrible look on my face. It was one of the most dramatic moments of my life. As
we got closer, I noticed his arms were extended forward.
“Put this on.”
In his hand and on his wrist were two of the last wristbands for Lollapalooza. In one
swift motion, he slipped it on my wrist and we threw ourselves into each other’s
arms. He got to the hotel and realized he had to do exactly as I told him, so he did,
and there we were with wristbands and ready to… Wait in line. Oh, well. Beats
waiting out of line! It was such a beautiful thing. We thought the best day of our
lives was going to turn into the worst day of our lives but it actually became better
than the best day because it didn’t go as planned. That’s life, right? Never what you
expect but more than you could ask for in either positive or negative lights. I fell in
love with Lollapalooza because I felt loved by “the spirit of the festival.” Having long
abandoned God and been uncertain of atheism, I took very kindly to said spirit. I
believed it more than anything anyone had yet to tell me.
I couldn’t tell you most the details of the rest of the weekend. We took adderall
everyday and smoked as much weed as possible. I saw so many great bands; I wish
I could remember all of them. I didn’t many full sets, so I cheated most of them,
anyway. There were too many people and not enough time or maybe just too many
stages with overlapping sets. I did what I had to do. We were together often, but
there were times we had to part ways because of our differed taste. I personally
think it is more fun to be with people you love, but a festival is the one place I am
more than okay being completely and totally alone. It was the best thing that had
happened to me that far and the furthest I’d been from home alone, too. I looked
Nathan Maxwell in the face and we exchanged “I love you”s. That was quite a
highlight. But I’ll tell ya, the best part of the whole thing was ma main man Perry.
“Gotta joint? Light it up!”
It was so magical. It was the first time, I’m nearly positive a show had ever been
magical to me. It was all so simple, too. It was the smallest stage at Lolla—Perry’s
stage. It was pretty much a tent full of Jane’s Addiction fans and Perry Farrell came
out and played Satellite Party songs. I didn’t even care because I was happy to be
front and center for his performance and I would have listened to him play anything
and I would have enjoyed it. It was really great, though, that his final encore was
Jane Says. Of the thousands of people there, we few were the only ones. It was
some energy I had never felt, I think. Perry’s animal was directly in my face. The
crowd swayed me and everyone reached for him and I caught him:
“Perry!”
“I know!”
Did he? Maybe. Did I think he did? Hell yeah. Do I still? Well, yeah, I hope so.
I saw a ton of other great shows, too. I saw parts of sets of bands I sort of liked at
the time that I wish I could witness now, only in their entirety. Dude, I got to see
Danny Masterson deejay. He looked just like Hyde. I wish I would have stuck
around! Even though watching them perform “Misunderstood” nearly brought me to
tears, my biggest regret is Wilco. I didn’t know my brother would grow up to obsess
over Jeff Tweedy! And Jeff Magnum, but we get to see him soon. Anyway, it was
awesome. It was so awesome. Everyone was so fucking happy and I was the
happiest kid there and I was never around happy people nor had I ever been happy.
I don’t think I even danced. I just soaked myself in Lollapalooza. I absorbed to store
everything there was to take from Chicago that weekend. I observed every moment
of ultimate peace and freedom that I wanted to live.
Lolly had come back.
As mentioned before, as I could mention dozens more times: Phenomenal weekend.
However, the first and last days were definitely the most remarkable. When I say
last day, I actually mean the Monday after. We were terribly sad to have had to
leave the festival Sunday night. We sang a good-bye song and everything. We went
back to the hotel and watched Baby Mama high as fuck on festival, football kush,
and addies. That shit was fuckin’ hilarious, but we still couldn’t sleep.
As half the room slept and the other half attempted to dream, there was kind of a
pissident… There was no way in Hell we were sleeping after that. Our laughter got
us kicked out of our room.
We were left to wander the streets of Chicago at the best time for us to be let lose
in the world: Six a.m. Nothing very bad ever happens at six a.m. aside from school
shootings and we weren’t in a high school so we were pretty safe to wander
Chicago. We didn’t really know what to do in Chicago the day after a festival, so we
just walked ourselves back to the festival. We stood in Central Park and watch them
tear down what was left of the stages, long been destroyed. It was sad and oh, so
bittersweet. We truly were in love. I went to the stage where Perry was, and on the
floor I found a four. I once dreamt that we played Euchre, so it was a big deal to me.
At that time, I could barely play Euchre. Not to mention, there are no fours in
Euchre. But I still found a card. Closer, but not quite there.
I’ll be honest, my partner raided the Flaming Lips tent. Sorry, Wayne. I was hooked
before I had the chance. We were curious about the Flaming Lips but knew nothing.
We just wanted to know more. I encouraged him to break into the tent because I
was so curious about the movie I didn’t watch but wished I did. I still have a piece of
cardboard from it hanging on my wall. I wish I would have seen it, but I don’t think I
was meant to at the time. And meow I seem to have run out of time to do things
like watch movies.
We made peace with all good things having an end and finally dragged ourselves
back to the hotel to get a little sleep before flying home. We couldn’t stop giggling
the entire shuttle ride to the airport. We embarrassed his mother terribly in front of
complete strangers we’d never see again. Kept laughing. I almost didn’t get to
leave Chicago because they assumed my lack of identification meant that I was a
terrorist. Cool, guys. My flight leaves in fifteen minutes, can I go? Oh, you wanna
search my bag? Probably smells like B.O. and pot. Bye.
Upon returning from Lollapalooza, I got my first job at a bakery my best
friend worked at. Having a job was pretty awesome. Having money was
pretty awesome. Going back to school was even pretty awesome. Junior year
was awesome. The Mad Hatter and I remained attached at the hip and had
the time of our lives every day, simply because we could. We were smoking
a lot of pot, to be frank. There was nothing else to do. Each day was pretty
routine. After school, I would either go to work or get high. After work, we’d
get high and maybe go to a 24-hour diner, Ram, because we could smoke
cigarettes there, or we cruised around listening to music most people didn’t
care for while getting high. If I didn’t work, there was no telling what sorts of
things we got into. We never did anything all too terrible. We mostly smoked
weed.
I think the reason we started smoking so much weed at this time was
1. It’s Parliament High. You read the Bible or smoke pot.
2. Smoking is a great ice breaker / friend maker (and not because it
makes you look cool!)
3. We already didn’t care about high school, and Lollapalooza reassured
us that it didn’t matter.
Maybe all high schools are like this, but a lot of people did a lot of drugs at
high school. I’ve compared life at Parliament to the other Suburban high
schools and from what it sounds like, at least in this city, it was definitely far
passed the gateways the others seemed to be at. Marlboro kids were know
to get high, Winston kids were known to get drunk, but Parliament kids we
known to get straight fucked up. I don’t mean fucked up. I mean
FUUUUUCKED UUUUUP.
We were gettin’ fatty bags of some mid-grade regs at a really good price but
our weed man sort of disappeared to heroin. It was not uncommon, unusual,
or unexpected. They had their own lunch table. I had experimented with
prescription pills a little bit the year before and my experimentation
continued throughout this one, too. I was curious about hallucinogens
mostly, but we didn’t know how to obtain them. This curiosity was not
restricted solely to hallucinogens. After trying mild uppers and downers, I
was curious about the stronger, harder ones, too. I didn’t acquire much of
anything but more and more prescriptions.
Honestly, I’d rather smoke pot, anyway. I didn’t know that at the time. When
high school was happening, I wanted whatever drugs I could get or whatever.
But seriously, people. You would much rather have your kids smoking the
goddamn reefer you’re always bitchin’ about than the mysterious and
dangerous drugs I would go on to experiment with. Jesus, calm the fuck
down about the fucking pot already. Way to get smart and make some
money off of the idea, states Colorado and Washington. I sincerely hope you
stack stacks on stacks on stacks.
You’re fucking pissed about the economy being complete shit and the one
thing that could actually fix it is your biggest enemy that is trying to be your
friend. You really wanna know how to fix things? Smoke more weed; sell
more weed. More weed is more money, more jobs, and more freedom. It’s
hard not to get along with a room full of the chill kinda smokes. You like
capitalism? Capitalize what we love most, then, and we may love you, too. Or
maybe we wouldn’t be so fucking fascinated with it. Either way, it’s a win-win
for both parties.
Fuck you for choosing a wasteful war against it! Just trying to make peace,
man… Fuck you.
And let’s be real, the pot smokers are the least shady of the drug users. Your
typical pothead is not a fiend for it. They aren’t usually psycho if they don’t
have it. Anything could happen to anyone at any time, but your devious drug
scams will usually involve harder drugs that pot. I’d rather be friends with
stoners that heroin addicts or coke whores or pill poppers or what have you.
Wouldn’t you?
There’s an automatic trust you put in your fellow law breakers that you can’t
exactly put in someone who does not partake. If you break the law, you are
obviously going to feel safer around people who also break the law,
especially if you break the same laws. This is instinctual trust that can make
a good friendship even better. It’s not because you look cool, it’s because
you can relate. You get it. You know what it’s like. You know what’s up. So I
say, “What’s up?”
That was the thing about it, too. I was finally starting to really see what was
up. Lollapalooza showed me, “Yes, Lauren. Something is up. And you’re
gonna know what it is.” It was so cool because the Mad Hatter and I went
back to Parliament giving less of a fuck because we now knew something
was up; didn’t know what it was, but we knew this wasn’t it. So we didn’t
care. We did not give one single damn about what would happen in high
school. For the first two years of bullshit high school I was depressed about
my grades, about my peers, about my parents, about the world. I wasn’t
quite as depressed about all that shit anymore because I finally witnessed
what was up. Not lived, just witnessed. I imagine we were two of few kids
that had gone to a festival other than DEMF. It was such a good feeling to
truly stop caring upon the discovery that it wasn’t solely me being weird.
High school really doesn’t matter.
“Lauren is weird and I envy her for her individuality. She would love my boyfriend’s
dad, he’s a hippie.” Some girl I went to high school with; she would later go on to
hate me
It could have mattered, but it’s done all wrong. High school students are too
big of assholes for it to actually work the way it was meant to. Education is a
fantastic idea. Social classing and casting? Not so much.
There are two different kinds of education students can obtain from high
school. There is the obvious education of books (knowledge) and there is the
education of streets (intelligence). I think I got a fair balance of the two. High
school is intended to expand on the ideas briefly taught to us in elementary
and middle school whilst preparing us for college and “the real world”. There
is nothing about the education system that legitimately prepares you for
college or “the real world”. You are treated like a child that cannot make its
own decisions. If anything, it gives these young assholes a false reality of
what the world is like. We do our best to shelter our children up until the very
last minute we are able to and that is high school graduation. How does this
benefit anyone? We have ended up with a mass of adult children.
I think we become selfish when we grow up. Not even grow up, just get old
and refuse to change. Many children dream of becoming doctors or
veterinarians or astronauts and such things because they like the idea of
helping people or animals or science or whatever interests them most whilst
helping out the world. As you get older, you care less about the greater
good, the higher being, and more about how you can help yourself. Vets
don’t make enough money, becoming an astronaut is so hard and lately,
seemingly futile. Doctors suddenly become doctors for capitol. Some people
never grow up, they just age. I’ve gotten older but there is still that
innocence of a child in me telling my conscious that it must help.
I tried really hard to retain as much knowledge from high school. I really did.
But again, everyone’s brain is wired differently. Math is not my thing. Science
is not my thing. It’s not that I didn’t want to do it. I was actually very
interested in both, but I was pullin’ Cs all throughout high school. I tried my
damn hardest but I do not have the brain capacity for formulas and figures
and number equations. I wish I did. It only got harder and harder to get by. I
was drowning in Physics, Pre-Calculus, and my dear lady Mary Jane my junior
year of high school.
Now, I’m sure you want to blame my terrible grades and lack of motivation
on pot. Why wouldn’t you? Potheads are known for being stupid and lazy. But
in my case, anyway, I feel pot is not to blame. If anything, it made me feel
better when I felt like shit. Is that such a bad thing? I knew I wasn’t any good
at this stuff. I tried to study, I did my homework. But there’s only so much
you can do of something you don’t understand. So I smoked pot so I could
enjoy any part of my life. Without being able to relax and calm down on
occasion—so it was a daily occasion… Whatever! It feels good to feel good,
sometimes. Why is that such a crime? The amount of pot I smoke didn’t
really affect my grades, it simply affected my attitude. I was getting the
same grades, but I was getting older. I had taken high school seriously the
first two years and it wasn’t going well. I finally stopped giving a shit because
I fucking needed to. Text books are not my thing. I’ll read books for pleasure
all day long (well, when I’m not trying to write one).
And you know, I can’t deny the fact that I’m still pretty smart aside from the
subjects I cannot seem to fathom. I have always gotten decent grades, but
even when I was slipping further and further from comprehension in some
subjects, I continued to pull As in English and Social Studies. That’s just what
I do. My knowledge is of words and thoughts. I prefer the abstract ideas
created from observation rather than the slightly more concrete theories
born from experience. I do like to experience in my day-to-day life, that’s for
sure. Every single day of my life tends to be an outrageous experience, and I
love that. But what I’m truly interested in and what I know very well is the
human brain and not so much the world around me. I’m sorry I don’t have a
use for every category of your general education. Why the fuck should it
even matter?
Marijuana also helped with my apparent OCD.
The worst part about Physics wasn’t even the Physics part of it. It wasn’t my
teacher, either. I actually liked my teacher, even if not many others did. He
was pretty understanding of the fact that I would never understand what he
was trying to teach me, but he tried helping me endlessly, anyway. This is
my book and in it, he’s cool. The real worst part about Physics, folks, were
the chairs. There are no desks in labs; instead, tables and chairs. I pushed
every one of them in every day. I wouldn’t start until everyone was gone and
I wouldn’t leave until each one was done. I don’t know why, it would just
bother me if I didn’t. I did this everyday because I knew there would be
consequences to pay if I didn’t. I didn’t know the consequences, but I didn’t
want to have to pay them. They tell me all good things must come to an
end…
There was this one day we had to go from our room to another room to do
some experiment. This is a science class, after all! So my class is filing out
the door and I’m pushing in their chairs and he tells me I can’t and we have
to go. So I go. As I walk away from the chairs, I start scratching my hand.
With my right index and middle fingers, I scratched the back of my left hand
raw. I didn’t stop. I barely helped with whatever we were doing. I think
people in that class assumed I was a lazy pothead, but really I just didn’t
ever know what the fuck was going on. Not because I was stoned—even if I
was, sometimes. I simply can’t do Physics. Anyway, this period was already
really weird, but it couldn’t stop there. I got called out of class and taken
down to the office for my first time at Parliament. I barely remember getting
called down to the office before Parliament. I was very, very confused. I
never really did anything wrong. I couldn’t figure out why they wanted me.
One of pointless, gossipy hall monitors walked me down and thought I was a
freshman. Okay, lady, just because you don’t know me doesn’t mean I’m
new. It means I don’t give a fuck about you. And come on, meow. You just
pulled me out of Physics. How many freshmen do you know in Physics? Just
me? Hm. Seems very likely, doesn’t it…
I’m told there’s a detective that wants to talk to me. Talk to me? Question
me? They have a detective in Parliament to drill me and I couldn’t think of a
single reason they’d want to speak to me. I was still a good kid for the most
part, especially pertaining to in school activity. I felt like I should have been
nervous, but I wasn’t guilty of anything. I was sorely confused, though. I was
pulled into the “interrogation room,” across the hall from ma English dude. It
was starting to become funny to me. They were taking me pretty seriously
and I couldn’t take them at all seriously. If I were a criminal, I’d be Robin
Hood; not robbin’ hoods.
Things became hilarious when I finally found out what was going on. My boss
made a dumbass mistake. When I had gotten my first job, I didn’t know my
social security number by heart. I had it written down on a piece of paper I
had given to my boss so that he could pay me. Apparently, I didn’t write big
enough because he had the wrong number. Oi vey! Some girl and her mom
convinced the school administration that I was trying to steal her identity
and I had to be the one to tell this detective that it was a dumbass mistake
my boss made and he was wasting his time. Honestly, I don’t know why this
girl even complained. I would have been giving her money. Of course, this
had to go down at the most awkward time while I am in the midst of trying to
dig holes through my hands with my own phalanges. Love my life.
“Lauren is ridiculous.” The Recycling Fairy
The worst part about this day didn’t happen on this day. It was the fact that
my Physics teacher told my mom at conferences two weeks later. It made
my mom want to get me help. I had sort of asked for it before, but nothing
ever became of it. As nothing became of it then. I’ve always been my own
therapist and I think I’m doing a decent job…
Even if I am a little crazy…
I have always had too much shit and none of it has ever been “together.” I
don’t know if I’ll ever get my shit together, on account there is so much of it.
That’s why I’m putting all this shit on the table. We all have problems. I’m
just willing to admit them. The thing about problems is that they will never
be solved unless they are admitted to but people are generally too shy and
shameful to want to think of themselves as flawed. I’ve known there’s
something wrong with me as long as I have known anything else. Age only
makes it easier on me and me harder on the rest of the world.
So I kept smoking weed. It was better than doing the myriad of other drugs
available to me. I’d take focus pills or anti-depressants on occasion and I
continued to smoke. It’s a hell of a lot better than some of the shit these kids
were doing! Parliament was—maybe still is—notorious for its rampant heroin
use. Crack was beginning to work its way up there, too. I know because my
best friend was a total fucking crack head in high school. We worked
together at a bakery and it was pretty much the worst shit ever. She’d leave
school early without me to go to Detroit to get high, so I’d get a ride from
someone else and smoke a bowl on the way. By the time we got to work, I
was in the sky and she was on the ground. It was nearly impossible for us to
get along.
It’s not like all my memories of her in high school were bad. She’s still my
best friend, and I can’t say that about most of my best friends. She’s seen
me freak out. She’s listened to me bitch more than anyone. And you know
what else she’s always done? Take my advice. It’s cool, man. She’s probably
the greatest thing that’s ever happened to me. I don’t even feel bad that
there was a time in our history I didn’t like her because I had to do it, just as I
have for others since then. A drunk girlfriend and I went to the most
trustworthy counselor at Parliament because we loved her and hated what
she was doing. But sometimes, you gotta leave a person in the dust to get
them back to the gold. I think she knows all about this now, even if she
doesn’t remember it happening then.
“I owe her my life. If I had not become best friends with her, I would have nothing
and I would be best friends with [people I have nothing in common with]. We are
around each other so much it is disgusting. Lauren and I seem to come as a pair at
times, except she is always the better one on all levels. Lauren is the craziest
person I know and it is a wonder why I am still friends with her. One time, I kicked
her and she almost threw soap on me when we were having a fight at work. Another
time, we spent $55 at the Dollar Store and it was very pathetic.” My best friend
The reason she said I was the better one was because at a time she was
smoking crack, the Mad Hatter and I had accidentally smoked a joint laced
with cocaine. I liked it, but I didn’t do cocaine again until much later. The
fight we had at work never existed, but some girl we worked with thought for
sure we were a lesbian couple. We blamed a booze bruise on my back on my
best friend and staged a fake fight, just to seal that lesbian deal because I
don’t know, it was fun to fuck with people and we were pretty fucked up.
But that was high school. Everyone getting fucked up. The jocks and shit
may have not been doing hard drugs like us freaks or whatever, but you best
believe they love to get smashed-trashed wasted. And you best believe I was
forced to hear about it for four years. I drank a little bit in high school. If I did,
it was in the Hills with KALM—a load of bad decisions or in with any of my
various girlfriends. Even when I would get drunk on a more frequent occasion
than I do now, I never gave a fuck about how drunk and stupid other people
got because I didn’t like being drunk and stupid myself. It’s all high school
bullshit. I think it’s so funny how being an alcoholic in high school is the
fucking coolest thing. You know people go to rehab for that shit, right?
Somewhere that year, I met my soul mate. It took me years to figure out
that’s what it was. I remember the first time I saw him. I felt a need to be
friends with him, so I waved to him. Every time I saw him every day. It wasn’t
until I knew his date / girlfriend at homecoming that we actually spoke. He
smoked weed and was a theater kid. We quickly became friends. He dumped
that stupid bitch like a month later. I stupidly, drunkenly confessed to him
that I had a huge crush on him. It didn’t go well, considering we weren’t who
we are yet. I accepted then that I would always be just friends with my soul
mate. Being a crushed spirit, I decided to do whatever came at me because
there was no way I was ever going to be good enough to get what I wanted
and that was my soul mate.
All I cared about junior year was marijuana, Jane’s Addiction, and stage crew.
What could be better to add to the mix than sex? At the prime age of
sixteen, I was ready to throw my V-card out the window and that is indeed
what I did. I gave it to the first guy willing to take it. He had such a small dick
I feel like it shouldn’t count, but it was in the catwalk of the auditorium, so I
kind of want it to. I’m such a bad ass, huh? Upon climbing down a ladder of
shame, I became shameless. I was pretty happy with it. I loved the idea of
doing whatever I wanted for whatever reason I so pleased. My life had
become sex, drugs, and rock n roll. Well… I guess it was also sex, drugs, and
show tunes.
I still wasn’t attractive. I was still pretty fat and pretty rude. I still did not give
a fuck. I’ll always cry about things that hurt my feelings behind closed doors,
but I generally remain unphased. And stoned! I looked a lot different in high
school, but so much of me has gone unchanged. Just as I do now, all I really
wanted was some good conversation. It was just hard-pressed to find in
Parliament High.
“Lauren has a fondness for abstract, sarcastic conversations with me, as well as
insulting [a douche bag ex-boyfriend] from a distance.” Ma dude
Eventually, I dated the punk. I left the previously stated douche bag for him.
It was like a dream of my fourteen-year-old heart come true, but it was not
entirely satisfying to my sixteen-year-old life. He didn’t have a car or a phone
or a job or whatever, and I only had two out of three. It was cool, but it was
lackluster, I suppose. On my seventeenth birthday, I met my high school
boyfriend. Two weeks after meeting him, I was dating him and about a
month after that, we were “in love.” I had never been loved before. Maybe I
had been but I never felt like it. It was a great feeling. He pretty much
worshipped me and I never thought of myself as being worthy of being
worshipped. It made me feel happy. That was cool. I can barely remember
how it felt now, but I guess it was worth my life at the time. I don’t think
people should ever disappear from their lives to be with one person, but I
think everyone deserves to feel blissfully happy. If that’s what it takes, then
do it. Just don’t do it forever.
He’s an alcoholic but he quit drinking for me so I quit smoking for him. I’m
glad I did, just because it’s proof that I could. However, I never want to be
with someone that would make me quit smoking. I love smoking weed. If you
can’t love me when I smoke weed, I guess you don’t really love me. It was
probably good for me at the time, I imagine it was. I will simply never do it
again.
The best and most important part of my entire relationship with HSBF was
the weekend we spent on the west side of Michigan.
ROTHBURY ’09: THE MOST IMPORTANT EVENT IN MY LIFE
If someone demanded I describe it in one term, it would have to be the 40 th
Anniversary of Woodstock. I still can’t believe I even went. Having gone to Lolla the
year before, I was psyched to be going to another festival. It was my first camp out.
And man, oh man. Oh man. I can’t even. Wow.
We were a three-car caravan. I was so excited and I didn’t even know what was
coming to me. I knew I was about to see some incredible performances, but I didn’t
know anything about the Grateful Dead so the Dead meant nothing to me. I had
never heard of the String Cheese Incident, I didn’t really listen to Bob Dylan, and I
hadn’t heard of so many more of the bands on the line-up, but I knew. I don’t know
what I knew, but I knew. And until you figure it out yourself, you’ll never know.
We arrived at five a.m. and sat in a line of hippies. It was the most awe-inspiring
sight I had ever seen! Fucking Hippies! The only hippies I had ever known were the
ones I was related to and never had I see so many. And the line was really short. We
got it and by seven a.m. we had camp set up. There was a beer in my right hand
and a blunt in my left hand. I’d never had so much fun in my life and the weekend
hadn’t started yet. It was the first time in my young life I felt true freedom. Lolla
offered some freedom to my life, but there is still a city of society to deal with at the
end of each night. Your campsite becomes your home for four days and all your
neighbors are the most legit people in the entire world. It was like being a part of a
community that Suburbia could never be, no matter how hard they tried to force it.
I knew going into it that I was going to try drugs. Our HSBFs had done shit like acid,
and I’d been curious about it for a while. I knew what this weekend had in store for
me. Based on the love I fell into at a festival and the pre-existing curiosity of drugs, I
knew this weekend was going to be a most interesting experience. I had no idea
that it would change my life as it did. There’s no way I could go into detail about the
weekend I had. You should definitely open your mind as far as it will expand and
check out a festival, though.
I took acid almost every day. I tried ecstasy, ate mushrooms, smoked all sorts of
marijuana-related goodies, and even took a shot of 100% Spanish absinthe—The
Black Fairy. I chased it with a nasty Busch light. I think a lot of people go to these
things solely to get fucked up and that’s what I don’t like about it. I barely felt the
drugs I consumed that weekend, but I did learn an awful lot about them. I was sure
to eat food and drink water the whole weekend. Above all, I was sure to have a
good time. To be very honest, I was slightly disappointed in the drugs because I was
looking to get fucked up like anyone else. I’m so happy it didn’t happen that way. I
needed to watch every motion of the Double JJ Ranch those four days. I wouldn’t
trade these memories for the world, and I find them all too precious to share. These
movements I wished to be a part of but did not yet understand were incredibly
intimate, but not among our two eyes. I did not see colours. I did not see shapes. I
simply saw through my third eye.
It truly was a time slip of a time warp. Rather than being in Grant Park this new
millennium, I was reliving the glory days of the hippie movement. It was so
beautiful. I felt the spirit of the festival but this time, it was so much stronger. A tent
can become such a strong bond. Leave the bricks in the suburbs; I want to be with
all of you always. It’s like saying, hey, I trust you to trust me to love you to love me.
Fifty thousand strong for peace. The spirit was alive and thriving, but it was then I
discovered the ultimate drive of the spirit. It does not pertain only to festivals, but it
seems to be most well-received at them. It is not restricted to any group of people,
but it is present where welcome. It is, after all, everything. How could anything not
be a part of everything?
The Universe is one very big place and we are all very small.
It was like I found where I belong whilst also answering my bother questions of
religion and solving the puzzles behind science. I am very happy to have spent this
weekend with HSBF because it surely would have been a shame to spend
something so special alone, even if it wasn’t the right person. It was very cool to
have someone to be a part of everything with. It was great to be with someone that
made me happy when I was surrounded by all the happiest people I had ever seen.
People want to believe the smiles are synthetically made. Maybe they are. Maybe it
is a shame I fell for. But I will say, I think it would be damn near impossible not to
crack one real one, teeth and all, upon witnessing being encompassed by a fence
but absolutely no walls. Instead of being concerned of what others would think as
most of our population is, no one gives a fuck at a festival in the best way possible.
We are not here to judge anyone for whoever they are, so long as it does not
infringe uncomfortably on the being of another. Only under the overwhelming love
of the Universe brought together by some of the most outstanding shows I’ve yet to
witness are we safe to exist. That, in turn, allows a patron to feel nothing but all the
powerful, positive energy human beings have to offer.
My mind was blown clear off my shoulders and even if I wasn’t blown, it still would
have taken off. It is such a good feeling to do whatever you want. What’s really so
fantastic is the absence of violence and hatred among a very large group of mostly
strangers. Even better is how many people were once strangers but have become
family in this very manner. It is the most beautiful thing to witness this. It’s like a
break from the dark and scary world this place is.
Upon returning from Rothbury, I was a new person. I do believe it was a
change for the better. I will always have kinks, but I most definitely
improved. The biggest difference was the change in my general attitude. I
learned to love HSBF before then, but I was still angry. I still hated pretty
much everyone and I held onto a lot of old angst. I didn’t care about much of
anything except the planet and my friends. Rothbury put a new hope in my
heart. I suddenly had some faith in humanity knowing we were capable of a
seemingly impossible display. I wanted to change the world again.
I wanted everyone to take acid.
That sounds so stupid now that I know any better. But man, oh, man. I
thought Timothy Leary was spot on with his lifestyle of taking a shit ton of
acid with a bunch of hippies all the time. It sounded like a great idea because
I really liked it. The Mad Hatter and I went with some girl to Lollapalooza ’09.
I got to see Jane’s Addiction at their own festival. We ended up taking a lot of
ecstasy because that was all we could get. It didn’t bother me not to have
drugs, but it kind of bothered him. I knew someday, it would all change.
About two months later, my cousins and our boyfriends took some and
tripped the hardest I’ve tripped to this day at an elementary school park.
HSBF and I decided we should have more of this to share and sell, so we split
a sheet. I was selling acid I paid $7.50 a hit for at an even twenty. Sorry,
guys. Demand was higher than supply. It seemed like I was one of the only
people that had acid at Parliament. I suppose that is why someone once
referred to me as the Acid Queen to my then-unsuspecting brother. I guess I
had a bigger reputation than I was even aware of because I guess a lot of
people knew about what I had.
I never totaled the money I made of those fifty hits, but I pulled some money
in. I was taking some of it, too. I was taking acid about once a month. It was
always with HSBF and I always had fun. For a moment, it was sort of all I was
interested in. I’m happy to have grown out of the slight obsession I had, but I
can’t lie… It was nice to be able to quit my job and still have some money.
Everything about my life seemed really good. It felt like it was the first time it
was ever good. Really good, like really enjoyable. I was learning more and
more about acid and other psychedelics, which entailed the Universe and the
music I have grown to love. HSBF and I were good, too. It was so nice to be
loved and to love someone that loved me. My family loved him and I think
they all expected us to get married because he fit in so well and he really
loved it and it was satisfying to have done something right. And you know, I
can admit that I thought I was going to marry him. I’m so happy I didn’t.
There was too much life had to offer me to have become a housewife like I
could have. When everything about my life was feeling so perfect, life had to
pitch one mad curve ball to strike me out.
I got pregnant.
To keep it simple, I missed my period in October. I took a test. It was
negative. I got my period in November. I figured I was good. HSBF was in his
native U.K. for New Year’s and week surrounding, so I ate some mushrooms
with my soul mate and went to a lock-in at his old Christian school. Oh, what
a terrible idea that was. We dipped and went to a hookah bar. I thought that
sounded like a terrible idea, too, but it turned out to be pretty fuckin’ sweet.
It’s been the only New Year I’ve had champagne poured on me. It was later
that morning I got the feeling I was not in the clear. Something told me it
wasn’t just the mushrooms. I took another test when he returned to the
country. It was positive. Exactly what I wanted.
Psych.
Even before this happened, I made it clear to him and the rest of the world
that if I got pregnant, I’d abort mission. It wasn’t a very hard decision for me
to make. I think this should have been the first sign that we wouldn’t have
lasted. I refused to start a family with him. I didn’t want to be tied to him yet.
I didn’t want no fuckin’ baby, and I didn’t really want anyone to know I had
one in me. I was seventeen, scared as Hell, and on my way there. We went
to a clinic where I was informed I had to first go to court and ask a judge
permission to do this because I wouldn’t ask my parents. I had some flakey
ass lawyer that was of no use to me but took a couple hundred dollars for
being there. I returned to the clinic with my permission slip only to be told I
was too late for them to help me. I was in my second trimester.
Fuck.
This is where people get tripped up about abortions. The timing is
everything. Most people can accept or forgive a first trimester abortion
because it is so under developed. Once you get into second, people are far
more relentless and disapproving. Third trimester is pretty much out of the
realm of possibility for most people. It should only be done in case of medical
emergency, in my opinion. Other people have different opinions… Like the
religious man that shot up a third trimester clinic in some other state…
Makes sense to be mad about people killing potential babies and seeking
revenge by killing full grown adults trying to help women in potential fatal
danger. If that gets you in Heaven, I don’t think that’s a place I really want to
be.
I’m sorry I didn’t know I was pregnant. Should I have had the kid just
because my body didn’t show any signs of it being inhabited by what would
become a human being? I’m sorry, but would you have really wanted a
seventeen-year-old girl to have a baby? I wasn’t ready. The immediate
response is always adoption. Well, shit, if I’m gonna be pregnant I might as
well keep it. I was doing drugs and smoking cigarettes the whole pregnancy,
who knows what would have come out. I’m not about to let someone pay
good money for a baby that could have ended up dead. I didn’t think it was
worth the risk or the humiliation, I suppose. Maybe that’s selfish, but I also
didn’t want to be stuck with someone just because I had to be. That wouldn’t
have been very fair to anyone. I didn’t want this child. I didn’t suddenly want
it because it was more developed than we all thought. I’m sorry if that makes
me a shitty person. I tried not to be selfish, but if it’s inside me, isn’t that a
part of me and therefore my decision?
The male argument is that it is fifty percent his. Even though he paid for
most of it, it was not what he wanted. Well, maybe if you would have used
condoms like I asked you to off the bat or at least had more control over your
dick the thing would have been 100% non-existent. Sorry. Don’t care about
what you think.
I went to two more clinics to ask for help. I was turned away from one, put on
a table and rejected from another. Finally, I had the saving grace of
WomanCare. Instead of a tension-filled office of doom and negativity, these
nurses actually sympathized with their patients and truly encouraged them
to avoid having the problem again. They were comforting rather than cold. I
finally felt some relief knowing after a two-day procedure, this nightmare
would be over.
One of the best feelings I’ve ever felt was the feeling of emptiness. I had
never felt so grateful to be so empty, literally.
I never went back for my check-up. I’m pretty sure they’re all closed now. It’s
unfortunate, because I feel like they were the only clinic that actually cared. I
will always appreciate that. We all make mistakes. This was my biggest. I
know that. But I promise I am not a heartless murderer like you think I am. I
had to face protesters offering me a baby shower if I would change my mind.
Make my day worse, why don’t you? Stepping foot through that door was a
safe haven from the disapproving world of conservatives I came from. I’m
sorry you don’t agree with the things I have done, but you will not stop me
from doing what I need to do. It’s my life, not yours. It was my unborn, not
yours.
A month after the ordeal was over, I turned eighteen. That was annoying. I
could have saved so much time and money and moral had I just already
been eighteen. My life couldn’t be any other way.
I tried to go about business as usual. I maintained my drug dealing and
suddenly expanding social life. I did a damn good job covering up. Or so I
think. I was finally hanging out with those stoners I thought were really cool
the whole time I was in high school but later realized weren’t that cool. It was
this crowd that introduced me to my first “girlfriend”: the Fickle Fairy.
It’s funny, because I got my soul mate to date her. Probably because I
couldn’t date her because we are both straight. We became best friends very
quick. I didn’t really notice it at the time, but she started to dress like me.
What I did notice was how I began to act like her. I don’t know, she’s really
immature but after what had just happened behind the closed doors of the
clinics, all I wanted was to be a kid again. We’d sing and sometimes smoke
weed and go to Ram and hang out with the homeboys and go to the thrift
store and I don’t know. I was obsessed with this girl even though she more
than slightly resembled a middle schooler in more ways than one. Shit, she
was a self-proclaimed middle schooler. I’d forgotten how much I hate them.
Because this is a record: John the Magician is a bad ass.
You would think anything that happened in high school or the months after
would really matter now, but I know bitches still holdin’ grudges from middle
school. I’m sorry; I didn’t think you knew what love was when you said, “I’m
in love with him.” I’m sorry these boys that you wanted so badly wanted me
more. I take what I can get; guess that makes me a whore. Either way, I feel
a curse was put on me the day you told me I was a bad friend. I didn’t mean
to take your dream away, but I apologized. You can’t forgive me? I didn’t
know it was going to hurt you so bad. If I could have an apology from each of
the bitches that hurt me, I’d feel richer than a book could ever make me. But
I never get ‘em, why do I keep givin’ ‘em?
I guess I know when it’s my fault. Whatever. The fairy lasted six months, as
has every bitch to follow. It seems as though she has done this “We’re the
best friends ever” for about six months with every girl she’s been friends
with since. Maybe it started before me, but I know it’s happened ever since. I
crossed her, but part of me feels like she deserved it on the behalf of
everyone she’s crossed. If nothing else, that must make me a terrible
person.
“Lauren made me terrified to date or be close to anyone.” The Death of Grunge
I wouldn’t have made it through that last year of high school without my soul
mate. I got to know him better than basically anyone. We spend so much
time together and only spent more together later. We even went for cutest
couple in our senior yearbook because we couldn’t get the best friend award
because we’re opposite genders or something stupid. It’s like he should have
been my high school boyfriend because he was actually there for me. I
wasn’t exactly grieving and I wasn’t exactly feeling guilty but I was really
thinking about it. I was going to prom and graduating and still with this guy
and trying to live my life like it didn’t happen, mostly because he didn’t want
to think about it so we never talked about it but he didn’t want me to tell
anyone else. Thanks for the support, asshole. But he bought me a ticket to
Bonnaroo for my birthday that year. I graduated high school with a 2.79, had
a party where I collected three grand, and left for Bonnaroo the first week of
being out \m/.
And don’t worry. I don’t think I’ll ever birth children. Maybe a long time from
now if it’s one of the two men whose babies I would have, but I’d rather
adopt because I chose not to have the one that was given to me. Seems only
fair. Also really sorry I never sent out my thank you notes on account of
being a fuck-up. I wrote most of them, but I wanted them to be personal and
I never finished. I’m really sorry. I hope everyone knows how much I
appreciate their gifts and more importantly, their support. Onward.
BONNAROO ’10: THE PARTY AT WHICH I WAS INTRODUCED TO WAYNE COYNE
The only real reason I went to Bonnaroo was because Rothbury was cancelled for
reasons unknown. There were a few rumours that went around about it (such as the
Ranch going out of business; the city of Rothbury wanting a noise ordinance to take
effect at 11 p.m. each night; the city not wanting to be affiliated with the festival;
there was even one that someone was killed…) but I still don’t know why they
cancelled it. It makes me really sad that I will never be at Rothbury, but how could
they have topped the perfect line-up? It was okay because Stevie Wonder was
headlining Bonnaroo that year and that was reason enough for me to want to go.
The Flaming Lips were going to play Dark Side of the Moon in its entirety, too. I love
Pink Floyd. I knew nothing of Wayne Coyne and the only Flaming Lips song I knew
was She Don’t Use Jelly and it frustrated me because if she uses Vaseline, she’s
kind of using jelly… Just petroleum jelly…
It’s funny, because I was really excited to see the Flaming Lips for Dark Side, but it
ended up being the only truly relevant part of my weekend. I had so much fun, like
any other festival. It was a great fuckin’ time I wouldn’t trade for any other great
time, but I’d trade Bonnaroo to relive Rothbury had the Flaming Lips not been there.
The other performers were really awesome to see, but I had never and have still
never seen anything like a Flaming Lips show. They came out and did a set of their
songs before playing Dark Side. This was the first time I heard anything else by
them. Imagine that, you’re on three hits of acid with some of your best friends at a
festival with 100,000 people and “Do You Realize??” is being played live in front of
you. I’d never heard that song. I cried. I have never had such a smile on my face
and I couldn’t help but fucking cry. Few things in this world are more beautiful than
the words of Wayne Coyne.
But it was hot as fuck and so far away, it would take Peter Gabriel or someone
almost as important to get me back to Bonnaroo. Sure, it was recording-breaking
heat the weekend I was in Tennessee, but there were way too many drunken frat
boys for me to give a shit about going back. It’s a tourist attraction and I’d rather go
to a festival…
It’s almost hard to remember now, but I think this was the time my soul
mate’s best friend shot himself. In the week leading up to his suicide, I talked
some mad shit about him because he dinned and dashed at Ram and I had
to pay his bill. I didn’t want my soul mate hanging out with him because I felt
he was a bad influence. I had just met his girlfriend, my Wasteland Princess,
too. I really liked her. But in my book, he was bad. Now, I just feel bad that I
didn’t try to make things good.
It makes you really think about what you say. It’s funny, because the Fairy
went through this with me, though she had only met the kid once so it really
didn’t make a difference to her. I told her how responsible I felt for his death,
even though it was no fault of my own. I explained to her how disturbed I
was that some kid I said didn’t deserve to live was a dead a week later. She
pretended to be as shook up about it as me, because she talked the shit with
me. I thought it made our bond more stable than others, but she actually
doesn’t have feelings about much of anything. It didn’t make any difference
to her. She’s heartless. She taught me about robots.
By July, HSBF found a lump in my breast. Aw, great. I had to approach my
mom as delicately as possible about the matter, because she was very prone
to freaking out on account that she is a nurse and has dealt with some really
terrible things. As casual as I tried to be about finding this shit, she
immediately started making panicked phone calls in fear that I was ridden
with cancer because I guess some relative of mine was diagnosed with it
when she was very young like me. So it wasn’t looking too promising.
It scared my mom more than it scared me. The thought of having cancer
made me sad, but I was ready to blame only myself for saying things like,
“Everything gives you cancer. We’ll probably all die of cancer. I’ve come to
terms with it.” God, I’m such a nasty sarcastic bitch, sometimes! As it turns
out, it wasn’t cancer. It was a lump of hormones commonly found in teenage
girls and pregnant women. Ha ha. Good thing I’d been both… But man, was I
grateful for that one. It seemed like he was a little less appreciative of my
good news. He chose to stay at home to watch movies with his sister than
come visit me while I was glued to my couch after surgery. Thanks, bro. I
have surgery like every day, so I get that your sister can’t wait until next
weekend or like, tomorrow. It caused a fight which he would probably still
want to say he was right. We broke up that night. I cried. It makes me laugh
now. He came over the next day and we decided we should not break up,
just take a break.
I don’t remember what the real difference was. I guess I smoked pot more
often and whenever I wanted. I hung out with my friends and didn’t watch as
much television. I enjoyed it. I hung out with a new crowd of Pall Mall kids
that I met at Ram.
Side-note: Pall Mall is this district in Suburbia that didn’t want to be a part of
Suburbia but didn’t want to be its own city, I guess… And I’ve met so many people
at Ram. Too many hours became too many people.
I danced with a boy I will always have a crush on but neither of us ever had
the courage to make the first move. I also found books in my basement. I
found Songs of the Doomed by Dr. Hunter S. Thompson, which I never
completed, and Living with the Dead: Twenty Years on the Bus with Jerry
Garcia and the Grateful Dead by Rock Scully, which has since become my
Bible. That book pretty much made me a Dead Head. I fell in love with the
Grateful Dead. I would tell their stories like they were my friends and I bet
my real friends got really annoyed by that. This was also the time I watched
the series Freaks and Geeks. (Oh my god, am I Lindsey Weir or what?) All I
wanted to do was live in the 60s and follow the Dead. Since this was
impossible, I did the next best thing I could and went to Hoxeyville to see the
Dead I could.
HOXEYVILLE ‘10: THE REMAINING EVIDENCE TO CONNECT COMPLETELY
Hoxeyville is probably the best festival I have ever been to. It didn’t have the best
line-up because Rothbury takes the whole damn dessert table for that one. The only
band I really knew was Rhythm Devils, Mickey Harte and Bill Kruetzmann’s band.
That was enough to make me go. Plus, it was a straight hundo and forty minutes
south of Cherry City. One car went a day early because they volunteered for a full
refund at the end of the weekend. We got there Friday to find our campsite in the
woods next to the camp sites. Immediately upon arrival, I fell deeply in love with
where I was.
It was a very small space and about as many people as I went to high school with, if
not less. I have never experienced something so open and intimate. It truly was a
family affair. It may have been my favourite festival (ah, fuck, man! If the fucking
Flaming Lips and the Dead played at Hoxeyville, fuck!!!) because it was so personal.
There were no drunken assholes, no inconsiderate fucks, but no fucks to be given.
Care to be shared, love to pass around. It was happiness for miles even though the
festival was smaller than a suburban neighborhood. It was everything I love about
festivals realized among these trees and hippies with long-haired children. I was
surrounded by Dead Heads. Time warp round two!
You know, maybe I was young and naïve, but I’m tellin’ you. There is nothing like it.
There is absolutely nothing like forming as strong of a bond as I found at Hoxeyville
with a bunch of strangers for three days covered in nature and music. I didn’t know
what pretty much any of the music was, but there were some damn good bands. I
hula-hooped in a pouring fucking thunderstorm to some jazzy hip-hop band from K-
zoo, FunKtion. They were amazing. It was one of the best times I have ever had. It
ruined my favourite pair of pants, formerly known as “the acid pants.” It was worth
the trip, that’s for damn sure. Jammin’ to some Dead songs with some Devils was
exactly what I needed, too. When I had done it the first time, it was the first time I
had heard the songs! If only I could do it again.
The real evidence came from Sindy, though.
HSBF had bought me the coolest little wiggly metal fishy necklace on Thursday. He
didn’t give it to me until he got off his volunteer shift Friday. He was working with
Sindy so the rest of us were straight chillin’ next to the tent to keep them company.
At Hoxeyville, you see everyone all the time. When you go to a festival like
Bonnaroo, you probably won’t see everyone that is there, or if you do, you won’t
see most of them more than once. At Hoxeyville, you just start saying hello to
people you may have never spoken to but whose faces you have seen a dozen
times. Saturday evening, we bumped hips with her again. We sat at Keller Williams
and chitty-chatted it up, I guess. She wanted us to go to a festival EOTO was
headlining the next weekend that I truly wish I could have attended. In the future, I
had one chance to see EOTO and Pretty Lights blew it! It was basically worth it
because it was awesome, but still gotta see EOTO, yo.
Anyway… Lollying around the point…
We were sitting in a hula-hoop and she pulls out a pouch and asked me if I had any
string. All I had was the string my fishy was on. When I pulled it out from my shirt,
she covered her mouth in amazement.
“I swear I didn’t see that.”
She hands me a seahorse fashioned and coloured in the same way as my fishy
friend. Her friend gave it to her before she came to Hoxeyville telling her she would
know what to do with it. Bonnaroo had me thinking I was a fairy, but I really am a
little mermaid. Always have been. I named the fishy Samson and the seahorse was
Delilah.
Hoxeyville was exactly what I needed to finish my last high school summer.
Of course, the one after graduation was my favourite. I broke up with HSBF
because some dude sweet-talked his way into my pants and didn’t even get
the job done. He ruined the relationship I had with the boyfriend and my best
friend. I’m so glad it happened, because I hate to think I would have been
stuck forever. I can’t say it was worth it because it was some of the worst
“sex” I’ve ever had and he gets douchier and douchier as time goes on, but
it all happens for a reason. That’s one undeniable thing high school taught
me.
Thing is, if you think that having my empty abortion pill bottles “is like killing
someone and keeping the gun,” I don’t think I really love you.
Thanks, pencil dick.
***
It’s like, when you take acid, you expand your brain about as far as it will go.
It isn’t humanly impossible to do without drugs, because your mind is
capable of the act—even when drug-induced. It is just a fast track to thinking
more rapid thoughts with a broader horizon. Many people feel the same
effect or feeling from experiencing this new way of thinking, and that is
everything thinking with them. I guess this is Universal Consciousness.
“Lauren is a walking juxtaposition of post-modern ideals.” Kenny, it’s like you knew
this is what I’d do
My mental health was on the rise, my spirituality took off, and I was on my
way into the real-ass world (lol) of college strife.
LOL Fuck my life LY
‘Tis a sorrowful week when I cannot see
That face, so big and so round
A girl, a cousin, the dearest to me
Especially with snow on the ground
Although the drab Winter may not be the best
When Autumn, we speed through leaf piles
And Spring we can frolic and relive the fest
And ignore the wailing of smiles
Oh, I miss you, as does J. Mack
For the other—I can’t say the same
I remember the days, but I’ll never turn back
It’s a shame the scene is so lame
Lauren Scott, do not be malicious
Just listen to Rush; lead singer, Sid Vicious
-My best cuz
“Roll those laughing bones”
SEX, DRUGS, AND DUBSTEP
“All the billion other moments were just slipping all away”
What I love about this chapter is that in the time between writing it and releasing it, I have actually seen the phrase “SEX, DRUGS, & DUBSTEP” printed on clothing and accessories. Weird, because when I started raving, I didn’t even know what dubstep was. I had to ask my brother because no one I knew had really ever heard of it. Now, you can’t really go into public without hearing it play from the speakers above you.
You can probably date the rave scene as early as the eighties because those days of the new gay club scene birthed the rave scene; though it primed in the nineties when everyone was too fascinated with grunge to notice it. I don’t think there has been a period in which absolutely no one was raving since it started, but I do think more people are doing it now than ever before. The former queen of the underground—the Rave—has shamelessly whored herself out of counter-culture and has become the dead-center of popular culture.
LOLWUT?...
It’s almost awkward. Back in the day, raves were held wherever could be found. People didn’t ask permission to throw them or advertise them publically. They found the biggest empty spaces they could to hold as many people that were going to call for the location of this space. They were often busted, broken, and raided the fuck out of because I imagine they would never be all too subtle. Now, they book deejays in the same place I
graduated. Seeing Pretty Lights on a stage where I walked across a stage for a diploma, whew. What a doozy. Gotta doobie?
Oh, and to anyone who thought I was “trippin’ face” that night, I got a confession for you, too: I was SOBER. I took an expired, over-the-counter “NoDoz” when I got off work and smoked a little bit of weed when I got there. Not a strip of acid. I didn’t sleep much and had a rough couple days. Ha. I don’t need that shit anymore. I’m the fuckin’ trip.
To say the least, I hate it. I don’t hate all of it, obviously. Pretty Lights is still cool in my book, among others like Gaslamp Killer and Hulk. But the thing as a whole, it just doesn’t seem right to me. I can’t agree with this obsession for a culture that encourages you not to think. It’s like practically impossible to hold a thought while listening to dubstep. As soon as the music gets into a trance long enough for you form a thought, only to disrupt it with THE DROP. You complain about kids having ADD, well, damn!
One thing rave kids have right is PLUR. It’s too bad they don’t practice it.
***
You can’t prepare people for college. You either can or you can’t; and so you
do or you don’t. No amount of force is going to change that. Some people
like it and others don’t. It’s not for everyone and I’ve come to terms with the
fact that college is not my thing. Instead of telling the kids like me who can’t
seem to see the purpose in college that they are totally hopeless, we should
just better educate children up until that point. I think it would be a better
idea to give the full grade-one-through-twelve education in half the time
instead.
Middle school is totally pointless because it is just a time for kids to get mean
about one another. If it isn’t doing any good, get rid of it. Make elementary
school longer because that is prime time to mold and form. Stop treating
children like they will not end up without innocence in the world we have
created for them. Educate the fuck out of our developing brains because we
are far less likely to retain any information given to us passed the age of
twelve because you know what we will retain after that? Whatever we like.
Not whatever we’re told. Once a child is old enough to have its own opinions,
it is going to be less likely to listen. So, instead of expecting us to stay
focused on things we’ve been taught before and trying to expand on ideas
we’ve since disregarded, give us all of that information when we can actually
use it. Bet we’d have some damn smart kids.
Children are so underestimated. They don’t stay young forever and with our
technology, it’s not taking them long to grow up. They are bound to outsmart
you. You might as well give yourself a fair chance in controlling their future
by giving them a general education before they question existence. That
way, in high school, you can focus on electives and teenagers can have a
better idea of what they like and what they want to do. Maybe if they have
that, they will be less destructive. And by the time they get to college, they’ll
be like, oh my god…
Real adults.
The autumn after high school graduation, I ended up where half of my ’10
classmates expected to find their selves: on the joyous grounds of the
Suburbia Community College campus. I know some people dream of the
colleges they want to go to from the time they are young, but I was always
undecided. Kids want to get into these great universities and as they get
older, they become more realistic or dream bigger. Some people like school.
And you know what? I think that’s really cool. I wish I liked school more, but I
guess I never really have because I was never one of those kids. By my
senior year, I still had no desire to go to any college over any other. I still
didn’t give a shit. I wanted to go to Detroit’s University, but I couldn’t drive
and I wasn’t about to hitch rides to Detroit for class. I felt I had no choice but
to go to Community College. It was a decision I was resilient to make, but
one I am ultimately very happy about.
I stacked up two grand working at the bakery and had additional graduation
money. I paid for my year of classes and still had money in the bank. Good
thing because West wasn’t getting any busier. It was cigarette money. It was
also time to do my homework or watch TV. I loved it. I didn’t care that I
wasn’t making any money because I loved the people I worked with and I
loved getting to know the tables that came in. It made me fall in love with
the restaurant business because it was my ideal restaurant. I had nothing
but time to kill by putting on my best smile and doing all I could in
conversation to get them to come back again. Most of them did. That place
survived on regulars as long as it survived.
In addition to the love I had for my job, other areas of my life were pretty
awesome, too. I was hangin’ out and smokin’ weed and chillin’ at the fuckin’
Ram just about every night. Even though we did the same things night after
night, I didn’t care. I was perfectly content with what we did because I was
with people I considered to be the best friends I’d ever had. We loved and
cared about one another and things beyond ourselves and our sickly
desolate Suburbia we were trapped in. We liked having fun but we didn’t
need something to occupy the space in front of us. We were content sitting
and talking. You know, the thing I love most. All we ever did was talk and
discuss and debate. All I needed was these people and their good
conversation with the job I loved and the easiest college I could be in.
Life was good. I’m sure it would have stayed the way it was if it hadn’t been
for Circus 8. I really hope my life gets good again, or that will upset me
forever.
Had my soul mate and I not gone to Dubstep Circus 8, we wouldn’t have
brought Baby to his first rave or ma momma back to raves. Had we not
started going to raves, my wife would have never contacted me wanting to
go with us to a rave. And had we never gone to a fucking rave, we sure has
hell would have never met Cuntsack. I can’t help but absolutely despise
dubstep. Sure, there are good dubstep DJs, but too much noise and no
emotion mixed with all sorts of man-made chemicals combined and designed
to make people money by getting other people to take them, have fun on
them, want more of them, and become addicted to them. Dubstep isn’t the
sole advocate, but it certainly plays a strong role in this scenario. And it
seems as though the more mainstream dubstep becomes, the more
prominent of a vehicle for the drug scheme it is. It’s kind of crazy.
Actually, I don’t think I honestly give a shit anymore. But I think that’s not
really my point. I’m telling a story.
Some night in some harsh December snow, my soul mate asked if I wanted
to go to the Dubstep Circus. I had heard of this show from a stranger months
earlier, but I wasn’t sure what dubstep was. I looked into further details of
said circus and called him back exclaiming, “Dude, I think it’s like a rave. I
think we should go.” So we went. As soon as we got there, I felt the need to
take acid. It took me about an hour to find, but I got some and it’s a good
thing I did. I can’t last through an entire rave dancing without some
assistance, to be frank. Some cute little rave girl took me on a tour. She
introduced me to people she had met raving, took me in the bathroom to
giggle with girls, gave me a finger light to dance with, and PLUR’d my wrist
with candy. In my naivety, I fell in love with the rave scene. Mistake number
one through one hundred, you might say.
I think this was the night my soul mate met Imma Cuntsack.
Our quiet life of getting high and drinking coffee was slightly disturbed by
raves. It didn’t take long to make a habit of them, seeing as how we were
such habitual creatures of the night. We may have gone more like once a
month at first, but eventually we went every weekend. We would take
psychedelics every weekend, anyway. We were just doing something while
we did it. And a lot more Molly. I can’t remember if I had tried it before
getting involved with raves. I’d had ecstasy plenty of times, but I think the
first time I had Molly was at a rave. I think most people that have tried Molly
will tell you their first time doing it was at a rave. Or most people who have
gone to raves will tell you that they’ve tried Molly. They will die holding
hands and I wish they would die faster.
I convinced my soul mate to date Imma. He was just sleeping with her after
the raves they both went to, essentially. But then she met me. She
proceeded to find me on Facebook and sent me a message pleading me to
help her because “she has never felt the way she felt about [my soul mate]”
and other psycho bitch bullshit. But she knew I was his twin sister and she
knew I wouldn’t say no. I’m not entirely sure how she knew because we
didn’t really know each other at all at this point, but I guess it’s those
goddamn good vibes I’m always spreadin’!
He didn’t like the idea at all at first. But I made logical points like: “Just try,
you might as well”; “she’s in high school, make her happy for a month and
be done with it”; “hey, she seems like a pretty cool chick, give her a
chance”; “there’s not really anyone else you’re sleeping with”. Stupid, stupid
things I said because it convinced him to do it. In reality, I should have said,
“Stop fucking that stupid whore and date me already,” but I was an idiot and
thought he was my twin brother. In reality, he was my soul mate. Or perhaps
we shared one. Something like that. Not only two peas in a pod but the only
pod in the patch. But it’s whatever, now. His soul overdosed on ketamine.
I wanted to see him happy. I thought being in love would make him happy
but I never thought I could be the one he was in love with. Retrospectively, I
can see it. But at the time, I was not an option. So what does she do but
attempt to take on the personality reflecting of my person but not so much
hers? Much to my later distaste, it worked.
I couldn’t imagine thriving on destroying other people, but it seems that’s all
bitches want to do to me. But it took a long time for me to feel that way.
I never particularly liked Molly, but my friends did. I liked going to raves and
like I said, I couldn’t get through them sober. Not because it wasn’t
enjoyable, but it was nearly impossible. I found them to be thoroughly
enjoyable, but incredibly exhausting. And shit, I was young and free. I was
okay taking Molly out every weekend because she didn’t call me during the
week. I like that about a bitch.
The downfall began some fateful day of a brutal March in Michigan. It was
the night my soon-to-be wife (and later-to-be ex-wife) and I happened. Of
course, we happened at a rave. Not just any rave, though. We happened at
the Return of PLUR. I had known this chick for a while very casually
through a friend or two, but it wasn’t until she delivered a message to me
about wanting to rave that we became friends. She knew I was going every
weekend and she has subconsciously looking for them since the sixth grade.
It was only our destinies that brought us there. The Return of PLUR was to
this day, the best rave I’ve ever been to. It was held in a ballroom in Pontiac,
a very surprising venue for people on drugs to rage. I’m happy we did it.
I had Baby, who had recently been declared homeless, and my soul mate,
whom Baby was staying with, and occasionally ma momma with me at these
things. My wife had a new, empty house. I did the calculations very quickly in
my head and I immediately knew this was all happening. She fit in perfectly
and she could give Baby what he needed that I couldn’t give him: A home.
And I knew the home of one of the coolest chicks I’d ever met was going to
be one full of love. When it came time to actually see the house, it didn’t
take long to realize what was meant to happen.
It wasn’t a huge house, but it was a decent size—especially for a girl at that
age. We walked in through the back door because it was easier to use than
the front door. We walked into the laundry room. Left were the washer and
dryer, and the next wall held a bedroom door. The room had carpet and
wood paneling. There was a big window on the wall straight ahead and a
closet in the corner of the left wall. The wall dipped to hold another window.
There was a lamp in the bottom right corner to complete a vibe of being
more north of where we were.
Pass the furnace to the right and cupboards to the left, up three stairs and to
the right was a full bathroom. There was a toilet and bathtub to the right,
and a counter to the left with a mirror above it. There was a bar to hold
towels we would come to never wash and a tiny mirror that was another
hiding place. After the bathroom was the kitchen, refrigerator straight
forward and a counter soon to hold a microwave to the left. On the next wall
was my spot in the house: the sink. At least there was a window above it
Continuing down the counter was the stove, and in the corner a kitchen table
that held a radio and five-disc CD player among an assortment of papers and
random junk. To continue left was the living room. Stage right was the
double front door which held a full-door closet and on the other side cubby.
Another door stood hiding another bedroom: Baby’s. It had a window on the
right wall, and a closet on the left. Down the wall and behind the door was a
locker-style cabinet. He loved it. Half way up the stairs was a window that led
to the roof above the laundry room and back bedroom, flat and perfect for
exploring on. Up the second half of the staircase was an entryway room that
lead to the last door, where my wife resided. The first thing I asked about the
house was about that back room.
“So whose room is that and can I have it?”
And as soon as I asked, I received. Baby moved in that week, and I was a
month to follow. Everything looked perfect, and from there, it continued to
get better. I was going back and forth between the new house and my
parents’ house because I didn’t have a driver’s license and I worked a block
away from my adolescent home. I would wake up, go to work, get off, go to
my wife’s, go home, sleep, and do the same thing the next day. I would get
picked up or dropped off and spend my day either with my wife or cleaning
until she got home or people came over. Imma was still in high school and
didn’t have a car, so she borrowed her step-mom’s or got a ride as often as
possible; until, of course, my soul mate became her personal chauffer.
We smoked a lot of weed and cooked and baked everything with weed oil.
Complete and total highons. We chain smoked mentholated cigarettes and
didn’t give much of a damn about anything happening outside of this new
home we were creating. It was becoming the new hang out spot for the
various groups of Ram’s and Cultville kids. And I lived there. I gave her fifty
dollars for the month of April because I was already starting to bring stuff
over and I wanted her to know I was serious. Rent was going to be $250 plus
utilities when I actually lived there, and she didn’t expect money until I did. I
guess it’s the kind of person I am, though. The school semester was coming
close to an end and all I needed was my license to officially move into the
house. Until then, I was there every night with the people I’d been spending
all my time with; smoking, drinking, and sometimes doing lines of various
forms of Molly. What a dirty, lying whore she is.
My wife threw money down with Baby to purchase a sheet of acid on
Bicycle Day, thus beginning the acid binge that lead to the drug trafficking
that opened the Gates of Hell in a house in the Hills of Suburbia. My wife
later confessed to me that in hopes to make money, she took $600 out of her
back account and never saw it again. But before life was bad, everything was
always phenomenal. I suppose that’s what acid does to you. Bicycle Day was
our first family holiday. What better way to celebrate than to rip the sheet
up? We wanted the first trip in the house to be just the family. We wanted to
strengthen our newly formed phamily bonds and become acquainted with
our new home. Or, Becca and I did, anyway. We figured a trip would be the
perfect way to do that. But we were never alone in that house. We had some
time to ourselves to explore the mostly empty house and fill each room with
love. We got lost listening to electronic noise and watching patterns of
colours explode into new patterns of colours. We ventured out on the rooftop
and up the house. We found ourselves sitting in circles on wood floors to
feeling the popcorn walls of the staircase and painting walls downstairs. We
measured the house and it fit just right. It was perfect. Becca and I were
falling in love with the house as it was because it was to hold everything we
had ever dreamed of. We were starting to fall in love. We were so excited for
life to happen.
There was also enough time for two door handles to fall off in my hand: the
bathroom and my wife’s room, where Imma found time to find out that my
soul mate and I were not blood-related. This is probably when she decided to
not like me. We had enough time to scare ourselves of what things may lurk
in the small closets of an emptied house. We ran downstairs to a room full of
people. The problem with trying to be the only ones celebrating Bicycle Day
is that there was still a sheet of acid needing to be sold. There were people
in and out of the house all night. It was a first visit for many, and probably
wasn’t their last. The other problem was that Bicycle Day is April 19 th. All of
our friends were highons and every last one of them wanted to be in the
house at midnight to begin the first 4/20 this highon had gotten high on.
Most nights in the house are a blur, simply because there was so much that
happened so quickly. I remember listening to Sublime when the date
changed and everything you could imagine being in rotation all at once. I
remember giggling to my wife about how we don’t much care for celebrating
4/20 when it was still Bicycle Day. I remember the house becoming too
crowded and leaving the extra people inside as our family stood under the
tin pavilion out back. I remember when it rained. It poured and never really
stopped. I remember thinking it was a good excuse to not go home. I
remember hearing the magnificent crashes of thunder and the jaw-dropping
scene of electricity striking the Earth.
Acid makes you feel at peace with the serene scenes around you; full of an
invincible love for everyone you know. Naturally, this “love” is often
manifested in a physical form—the idea of “free love” that was apparent and
mocked in the 60s. I feel the word “free,” especially in a situation as such,
can be somewhat misinterpreted. I suppose, in a certain respect, everything
can and is misinterpreted somewhere in its course of existence because we
do not all have identical brains and certainly not the same beliefs. The
problem with people and hippies is the negative connotation thrown at
hippies by people. We are mocked by this concept of “free love” for being
dirty, slutty, and easy. Did you ever stop to think that you don’t know how it
might feel to be on acid? That we simply have a love that exists in us that we
ignore in sobriety and becomes uncontainable as we trip away? We choose
to let this love inside of us free and we do it in a way common to mankind:
sex. A trip is a twelve-hour lifetime, and sex is a part of the cycle. It is an
alternate reality that can teach you a lot about reality, or even bring up the
question and sometimes an answer of what reality truly is. You can learn a
lot from expanding your mind in the ways you do under the influence of LSD.
But maybe we are just horny teenagers on drugs. It would really depend on
your reality. Either way, a co-ed commune is always going to have some
raging sexual tension and frustration of hormones and testosterone.
Rewind to April and we’re happy living in a house with a sheet of acid.
Charlie Sheen was the current icon of fucking shit up, so we shouted many
“Winning!”s as we began getting everything we wanted. We had a house full
of people with a sheet of acid, mentholated cigarettes, booze, and weed with
all sorts of pieces to smoke it with. We were good. We didn’t always have
food or money and we never bothered with cable, but we seriously didn’t
give a fuck. The best part about that house was not having cable. We were
feeling like Charlie did—kind of infinite? We were young and beautiful or
whatever they say, so we craved the thrills and chills of life. Nothing but that
house mattered to any of us. Oh, and Baby’s job. We cared about that.
I really wanted that life to last forever.
My wife may have never seen her savings at $600 again, but I assure you
she saw more drugs. Some of the people living in that house had little to no
experience handling, dealing, or consuming drugs. But that’s exactly what
they were doing. And this attracted many established drug handlers, dealers,
and consumers… Very, very fast. The greatest downfall of or key to success
for the house was, I truly fear, dubstep if it wasn’t simply myself.
The next night or the next week and the next night after some other night
we took acid, Imma and my wife had locked themselves in Baby’s room and
wouldn’t let me come in. I immediately knew what they were doing. If you
don’t know what they were doing, the answer is drugs. They both knew I
wouldn’t be happy with this decision because I had been making it clear
since Baby and my soul mate decided to start selling Molly to be very careful
of not doing them. The temptation to do a line or eat a tab is much stronger
when you don’t have to go further than the room over to get it. These girls
hid from me because they knew I would not have approved. I assumed it was
thought up by Imma, who felt no remorse; and was carried out by a guilt-
ridden my life. Once the deed was done, they let me in. Of course, there was
nothing I could do but take one, too. If you can’t beat them, join them? I
don’t know, I knew it wasn’t a good idea, and I didn’t want to necessarily do
it, and they didn’t pressure me to do it because they tried to hide it from me.
They never could.
The problem was that some of these kids couldn’t handle themselves on
drugs and I could. They would run out of things to entertain them, or not like
the way their body felt, or would find themselves knee deep in some serious
shit…
I took the acid so I would have the love and patience to look after them for
the next twelve hours. To handle their shit and still enjoy myself at least a
little bit. I guess I was nineteen, too, and a mother of five or so, and this was
the best way to do it. More people came over and more girls took acid, like
some Parliament-grade hippies and ma momma. It was a “Ladies’ Drop”. We
listened to My Girls by Animal Collective a lot. Whoever was there sort of
laughed at us and let us trip away, but my soul mate had school in the
morning and didn’t want to sleep. Imma didn’t like this because she wanted
him awake. She bothered him a few times and eventually crept off to my
room in defeat. I sat and talked to her.
“What’s wrong, baby girl?” I always called her Baby Girl.
“I don’t know, I feel like something’s missing, like. A part of me is missing.”
“Aw. You mean [my soul mate].”
“Yeah,” she giggled. “This is the first time I’ve taken acid without him.”
“Well, I’m his twin sister. So I guess I’m like the next best thing?”
I put a smile back on her face and we were either found by my wife or
returned to the living room. I think this was the night we tried to watch Super
Troopers and the movie was restarted and fast-forwarded and re-round
multiple times so we gave up on it. Baby put his crazy new visualizer on his
giant computer screen and we got sucked in and lost. I couldn’t come up
with any sort of relative time frame for just how long, because that’s just
how lost we were. Your eyes become glued straight ahead as you lay on the
floor or sit on the bed and the music is mesmerizing and it’s the coolest thing
you’ve ever seen because suddenly, the whole room is the colours of the
screen and the patterns break the container of the box they’ve been bound
to and take up the space surrounding it. It was a complete sensatory
satisfaction, an effective short-term brain distraction—some longer than
others.
After we had all been cramped in Baby’s room for however long we did, my
soul mate popped in the doorway.
“Imma!” I pointed to the door in excitement. She looked up at him. Her eyes
returned to the screen. He went back to the couch.
“Do you know who that was?”
“Yeah.”
It always made me slightly uncomfortable when Imma looked me straight in
the eye. I found her to be impossibly adorable most of the time, but then I
would catch her in acts of straight bitchery. I was really weirded out about
what I had then witnessed. She had just been complaining to me that my
soul mate was sleeping and she didn’t know what to do without him, but now
that he woke up when the living room has cleared out and wants to have a
minute alone with her, she’s too busy looking at a screen?
Suddenly, I couldn’t be looking at this screen anymore. The room was
making me want to vomit. The lack of productivity that comes of watching
graphics nearly terrifies me. And I was even more uncomfortable by it after
witnessing what Imma had just done. I was beginning to notice how hot I
was. I could see sweat on every last face in the room that was holding more
people than it was meant to hold. I had to get the fuck out of this box. What
better place to escape to but the roof?
I never remember exact detail, but I’m pretty sure somehow, my soul mate
and I ended up on the roof alone together. I don’t remember much being
said or if we talked about the way we were feeling about Imma, but I
remember being on the roof with him. Of course, when I was spending time
with him, she comes along. Suddenly, she was not so busy. I was polite,
regardless, and gave them some alone time. She may have been rubbing me
the wrong way, but I figured if my soul mate liked her, I liked her. I don’t
remember what had happened the rest of the night. I’m pretty sure it may
have been the night Baby realized I was a girl.
When I say I’m a boy, I mean it. My best friends have always been boys who
will accept me as a girlie boy. Baby was one of those people. His phone rang
when he was eating and I was sitting next to him, so he said, “No homo,”
stood up and asked, “But will you get my phone out of my pocket?”
Everyone laughed and I did it and it was funny. Honestly, I appreciated that
mentality towards me because it was true. What really got me was the fact
that he later stood over another man that lay upon his bed to test how
sturdy it was… But didn’t no homo the penis…
After a year of being nothing but friends without the slightest interest or
inclination, I suddenly found myself ending a psychedelic day in Baby’s bed.
He told me he wanted to see me naked. Because we had a prior agreement
to a No Clothes Necessary policy in our hypothetical house, I didn’t mind
undressing for him. Not to mention, I have always given Baby whatever he
wanted.
“What do you think?” I asked him of my naked body, out of curiosity.
“It doesn’t bother me,” he answered in response to my hair.
I smirked and didn’t correct him. He locked his door and we lay on his bed,
nose-to-nose. It was sort of strange. I find Baby attractive, but I have never
been overly attracted to him. I would guess he felt the same way about me.
It was confusing. It was my Baby, but all of this sudden, he was a good-
looking, twenty-year-old boy I was naked in bed with. His eyes cyclopsed and
the smile on my face began to feel a pull of gravity from his lips. So I told
him.
“My lips feel like they are being pulled toward you.”
“Ooh. That’s a good thing?”
So we kissed. Just once, first. We pulled away and didn’t know what to do but
try again. Tongues became involved. When we pulled away a second time,
we gave each other funny looks and I began to laugh. It was Baby. He went
in for another round of brief making-out to be laughed at again. We rolled
around, back and forth lips then laughs, hands roaming, hearts beating fast,
confusion tossed out the window. Suddenly, he was on top of me. Suddenly,
it was no longer “could happen,” it was happening. Baby and… Baby were
ready to rage in Lolly Land.
But they didn’t quite get there. They were distracted by the future of hip
hop. Before he could actually get inside me, he came on his bed between my
ass. Not in my ass. Between it.
“Oh my god. I am... So sorry. That’s never happened to me before.”
“Well, at least it was me and not some random rave girl.”
“Yeah… That’s very true.”
We laughed some more. Suddenly, someone was at the door. Our clothes
were back on and I left.
Either the next day or just the next trip (which could have easily been the
next day), Baby was in the shower. We hadn’t talked about what happened,
but I figured there were no longer boundaries between us because we
experienced the most awkward and uncomfortable situation the two of us
could have been in. I walked in the bathroom. I wouldn’t be surprised if I was
already naked.
“Lemme get in there, I have to shower.”
“No!”
“Why?”
“Because!”
“Fine, tell me when you’re done.”
As I turned for the door, he popped his head out of the shower. I turned back
to him. His eyes were wide and his brow was furrowed. He extended his arm
and grabbed my face, pulled me in and kissed me. The water dripped off of
his face and into my mouth. He pulled me in. We stood under the shower
head and he watched his hands flow down my body. He trapped my head in
his hands and our lips connected, my mouth filled with liquid and his tongue.
“Hey. Calm down. You have a bed for that. Let me shower.”
It could have been very romantic if it wasn’t Baby. I reminded him that I had
said if I had more money, I’d be his sugar mama. I mean, I took care of him,
anyway, I might as well have gotten some out of it. This time around, he
made it. It was fun, too.
Anyway, I recognized the use of drugs being slightly on the excessive side
early on. There was one morning Baby and I stayed up until the morning
because he was rollin’ face so he decided to continue to roll face into the
next day. I did a line with him at some godly hour because I didn’t ever have
shit to do so I didn’t need to sleep. By ten a.m., I watched my wife take a fat
rail, without permission, of what little Molly was left to sell—money Baby
really needed. She rolled about her morning.
It worried me because these were not rave kid drug addicts at this point.
These were my best friends and the people I lived with. A lot of people saw
the house for what it truly was—not the safe haven I dreamed of but rather
an escape or, if you want to go to the extreme, trap house. Even though I
was asked numerous times during my stay why I was there for the reason
that the interviewer believe I was too good to be there, I couldn’t give up. I
adopted them as my family and I couldn’t abandon them. I didn’t have a job,
I was just the housewife. The mother. I was the only one who actually cared
about the people inside the demons at present. While my true friends shook
their heads in shame, I held onto the hope that I could help. I could change
what the world around me was and make it better, but I couldn’t. I no longer
had my best friends. I was a car that could get them around. I was the
dishwasher because there was no machine. I was there to clean. And
occasionally I cooked when there was food at the off times people were
actually willing to eat or I brought home leftovers from my family gatherings.
I didn’t just take care of the ones that lived in the house, either; I took care
of the guests who were drinkin’ too much or trippin’ too hard or rollin’ too
far. There would be the occasional night I was under the influence among the
rest of them. And honestly, probably more than occasionally.
We continued to go to raves every weekend and inviting new people to sit in
the ever-changing living room after we were kicked out of the Works or
wherever else we found ourselves. We knew that there were plenty of kids
fucked up on drugs that needed a place to be—so we took them in. I met
some of my best friends this way. It was constant people in motion, coming
through the front, out the back, up and down. The house got trashed in a
matter of minutes. The activity was endless, as the traffic never stopped.
There was always someone calling or showing up or needing to be in that
living room, staring at the Grateful Dead poster that claimed souls and
covered the living room wall.
We collected a couple ragdolls and baby boys and opened the doors to all
the misfit toys scattered throughout the tri-suburban area. We created a safe
haven from reality but also held the check to it. We cared for all and any that
entered, even though we have been victims of cold-hearted sons of bitches
who will never know the concepts by which we lived. Peace, love, unity,
respect. We seemed so different, so strange because we lived by different
rules. We lived like we were meant to: young, wild, and free. We, to a certain
extent, disregarded specific guidelines we’d been legally handed to follow
because we do no harm in tossing them out the window. We wanted to
experience. We were learning. Some of us changed. All we asked is that we
were left alone. We did not disturb (or mean to disturb!) anyone that did not
wish to be a witness to what appeared as madness.
Dub/tech Sandwich was the first night we invited people back to the
house.
“Make me a sandwich, bitch. A DUB/TECH sandwich.”
This was the first night I can say the house was completely out of control. It
was the second best rave I’ve ever been to, probably. The night to follow was
pretty fun, too… For everyone but me and my wife. There was one point in
the night she was laying in my bed telling me she didn’t want this to happen
to her house. She didn’t want to be the party house. She didn’t want the
drug house. She wanted people to come to her home. She wanted a happy
home of highons, not the feigning world of demons that had so suddenly
spawned. She felt like she was dying, and that scared her because she did
not want to die that way, in my bed, with all that chaos, under the influence
of drugs.
She knew the Cuntsack was her problem.
Imma was always the instigator for their secret consumption of drugs and my
wife knew that. I knew that. But I begged her not to kick her out that night. I
begged her to give Imma a chance because she was my soul mate’s and I
begged her to give him that chance. She was on her last string, but she
complied. Problem is, it didn’t get much better.
In May, my manager at West laid me off in the most unprofessional manner.
The girl whose job I replaced was back from school and she was taking my
position. Instead of telling me this, I showed up to her and got a text the next
day telling me not to come in. Way to have a dick, bro. It’s not like I put
hours of all kinds of service of all different positions for a quarter of what you
would have paid anyone else. My face would have been a nice decency. They
taught me all the good shit I know about business. I can understand the
business decision. A coulda been real with me. I still have mad love for that
place, even after it, though. I mean, it went out of business a month later,
anyway. It was my favourite while it lasted, though. And I met so many
people that I’ll never forget.
I was happily unemployed. I worked far more than what I was paid and still
had money in the bank. I got my license and moved into the house full time.
I was to remain unemployed the rest of summer and I lived off of what had in
the bank and became a full-time mommy. Rather than being what I could
consider a part of reality, the PLURhouse felt something more like a time
warp. Very soon, though, my time warp was interrupted by the greatest
show I have ever seen.
THE FLAMING LIPS, DETROIT: THE NIGHT I MET WAYNE COYNE
I knew the Flaming Lips were coming to Detroit, but I hadn’t been financially sound
enough to buy a ticket. I had seen them; I didn’t need to see them again. I thought
to be economic. That Friday the thirteenth, just an hour before the show, came to
the house to sell me his ticket. I offered it to Baby but he wanted to sleep. Ten
minutes before we left, the kid that was going to go with my ex sold his ticket to my
wife. So we ate a tab each and were on our merry way.
It wasn’t until we were half way to Detroit that I found out my wife and I had tickets
on the floor. I wouldn’t have worn flip flops if I would have known. We anxiously
waited in line, where I suddenly couldn’t imagine myself not being there. I was
comin’ up pretty good. I could taste whatever I had in my mouth, so I’m not so sure
it was acid. Either way, it worked out because I wasn’t trippin’ too hard but it was
just enough. We stood around waiting ever-so patiently for the Flaming Lips to
begin. Having good opening acts give us said patience. The longest stretch was
those minutes between Sean Lennon’s band and the Lips. I had my tambourine in
one hand and my shoes in the other, front stage right. That’s my spot. And then it
began.
Though I can’t tell you anything about it. Sorry.
It’s just something you have to witness yourself. I will tell you that I’ve never seen
anything like it. Of all the hundreds of performances I’ve seen, there has been
nothing like this show. You think you’ve seen and heard some trippy shit until you
see the Flaming Lips live. It changed my life. I can only say that about a select few
shows but this is definitely one of those shows. And I have to say, it was my
favourite. It wouldn’t have been if it weren’t for Wayne. Totally. If it weren’t for the
explanations that came with each song, or the tears of others, it wouldn’t have been
half of what it was. If he didn’t care to come meet the people who came to see him,
the people who came to see him wouldn’t much care to meet him. But he’s such an
awesome dude. He asked my name and signed my fuckin’ tambourine and let me
play with his hair and kiss his face and all he really wanted to know was about Lolly.
“Is that who you are right now or is that who you are?”
“It’s who I am.”
Here I am. After that night, I only introduced myself as Lolly and not only when I
was at raves. After slowly growing to question my existence, love, humanity, drugs,
my beliefs—everything—Wayne Coyne seemed to have answered all the questions
in my head without me having to ask a single one. I imagine most of the crowd that
night felt the way I did. I at least hope they did. I know that chick climbing over
people to reach the stage did. There is no feeling that could possibly match the
energy of the Flaming Lips. For that I am forever grateful. And for that show, I would
not trade the world.
Meanwhile in the time warp, things were still going in the direction my wife
and I had discussed we had not wanted them to go.
We put up with a lot. There was constant cleaning to be done, someone to
care for at every moment, people with places to be and only me to get them
there, and a need to be around as much as possible in case of emergency. I
would get anxiety when I was away from the house too long because I feared
the worst. Every paranoid thought in my brain came out and took off about
all the possibilities of what shit could be going down when I wasn’t there.
And when it would go down when I wasn’t there, it never went as well as it
could have. I didn’t benefit much from all the work that I put into the house.
So proposed the question: Why? Why did I do it? It was simple for me.
Someone had to. I have a great amount of patience, even if it doesn’t always
seem that way. I have witnessed things most people in this world will never
have the chance to see. It’s interesting. It was always interesting. And I loved
it. I loved being the communal mommy. It is just what I am here to do. There
would be so many Lost Boys if it weren’t for us. And my love for each and
every one of them was enough fuel for the fire to keep burning. But after a
while, no amount of fire or passion could keep me there. Things happen—life
happens. And life bitch slapped me in the face.
Didn’t Shakespeare tell us there is a method in his madness? There was a
method to what we did. We provided curious hearts with pure intentions of
simply living to do things in the right way. We taught and educated and
prepared to the best of our abilities—as you would a child—and sent them off
into the world. Or other worlds they could choose to explore. And they
always knew where to turn when things were not precisely how they should
be because they knew they could. They knew when they had no one to turn
to, nowhere to go, nothing to do, no way to live, they could come home.
They could always come to their secret world in our home. It was the
greatest comfort to all of our friends because it was something hard to come
by—the magic of that house. The peace, love, unity, and respect in that
house. So many beings out there forget those finer things in life. But inside
the front door and through just one more, or around back where the door
didn’t stay closed unless it was locked, it thrived.
The energy of the house was constantly moving, pumping corner to corner,
keeping its guests entranced in its walls. Those who came back were the
ones that felt the energy. You could only feel it if you had it. Positive
vibrations radiated off every surface in every room and the people that
occupied those rooms had to be able to keep it going. They had to keep it
alive. We couldn’t let the compassion for human beings other than ourselves
go down with everything else that seemed to be heading that way. We had
to keep it alive. We kept it alive. Peace. Love. Unity. And respect. Our only
goal with any of it was to spread an idea. The idea that we can all exist
happily when we stop and consider one another. But when we “considered”
people, it really meant we spoiled the shit out of them. It’s just the way we
were.
The keyword in the monologue is “were”. Hell, I said monologue. A stupid
bitch convinced me to believe she wanted these things, too, but she is just
another drug addict in the world. One I couldn’t live with but most certainly
can live without.
As my first year at college was closing, I was knee-deep in Detroit Rave High
School and loving my throne atop the Candy Kingdom. I think the only thing I
can honestly say I took from that year of community college is my
psychology class. I had the most legit professor I’ve ever had. That and
sociology. That woman was one of the greatest I’ve met to this day. But my
Psychology class made me realize how much I really do love the human mind
and how much of a psychologist I truly am. If I do go to college, I know what
it will be for. But nineteen was not a good time for me to be in college.
Twenty doesn’t seem to be, either. But I’m glad I went when I was eighteen. I
needed a little direction. With my need to explore the other world and
resilience to settling, I needed someone to get through to me. I would have
completely fucked my life up forever.
I decided I was going to drop out of college and write a book if I failed my
math class. I was looking forward to living among the rave kids and not
having a care in the world but all the love I needed. I disregarded a lot of the
information given to me on my small Suburban campus aside from
everything I was taught in my psychology and sociology classes. The one
piece of information that was absolutely crucial to my development was from
my psychology professor.
“Acid doesn’t do anything your brain can’t do on its own.”
I couldn’t argue that. I loved it. It sort of became my mission to prove it
because it was something that sounded exactly like how I felt. Perhaps that
is why I stopped hallucinating when taking psychedelics. I allowed my brain
to overpower the drugs I would give it, in a way. I wanted to further my
exploration on the subject because the one thing I had never changed my
mind about was that acid makes an incredibly useful tool for therapy. I was
now out to combine what I knew from a psychological standpoint with my
expanding knowledge of illegal substances in attempts to eventually figure
out a way to rehabilitate with the use of drugs. My experimenting on the
theory didn’t exactly go as planned, however. It never does. The only way to
really explained what happened is pretty bitches ruined my life. But in the
end, it’s always my fault because I let them.
Imma intentionally made me feel unwanted and I to this day cannot fathom
how one could do that to someone that did nothing but try to love them. It
started one of the few days I decided to go out and look for a job and spend
time with my family. It was a Wednesday, because I went to dinner at my
grandma’s. I was at my parents house most of the day. They really enjoyed
seeing me, mostly to hassle me about my life. At least I had a plan to go visit
a bitch at work to fill out an application in hopes of getting a job. They didn’t
actually have any, and I never actually got a job there. But she gave me a
free sub. I appreciated all donations life had to give. I stopped at the Dollar
Store and did some pathetic grocery shopping: bag of pasta, can of sauce,
bag of animal crackers, and a bottle of ‘Zona green tea. I finally got back to
the house, excited to be home and to see my phamily. There was no one
home when I first arrived. I was in my room when I heard someone come in. I
went into the living room to find my wife and Imma. The vibes in the house
were off. They felt very standoffish to me. I sat and ate half of my sub and
they announced they were leaving again. They didn’t mention where to or
how long they would be gone. I rolled it off. Probably no more than five
minutes later, they returned. Trip to the gas station—not unusual. However,
shortly after that, they left again. This time it wasn’t for five minutes. I
retreated back into my room.
As time passed, I heard the house fill up. I wasn’t in much of a mood to talk
to anyone. I was uncomfortable with the way I had been treated, so I figured
I would just retreat. I sprawled on my futon mat nude in the dead of night,
my iPod playing the words of Peter Gabriel and Eddie Vedder among others
singing the thoughts in my head. I typed my short stories and was calmed by
the crickets and other hums in the darkness of a summer night. I noticed the
bitches knocking on my window, calling my name. I gave them a look and
resumed typing. Ten seconds later they barged in my room—also naked—
and stated they needed my help.
“With what?”
“Living.”
They disappeared to the backyard. I followed out of curiosity. I stood in the
doorway staring at two children playing naked in a mud hole. They had the
Crazy Daisy sprinkler out, too. Apparently, my dear friends had snorted some
2-CB that evening. They didn’t want to tell me this is what they had been
planning on doing, but it didn’t go well for them. They were having a hard
time dealing with the brightest colours one could see at night while any
waste in them seeped out midst sweating their balls off. It wasn’t until they
didn’t know what to do with themselves that they wanted my help. Why
anyone would think they could treat me like dirt and then expect me to kiss
their feet and make their world better is beyond me. My best advice to
anyone is to treat others the way you want to be treated, one of the few
things I did learn from Catholic school. So maybe you should think twice
about being a bitch before you’re a bitch to the wrong bitch.
I slammed the door in their disc-eyed faces.
This night sparked a two-week breakdown in my room. I felt betrayed by
everyone I knew. I would venture out into the living room later that evening
and throughout the next two weeks and it didn’t seem anyone cared either
way. Eventually, I stopped leaving my room. All I ever want from people is for
them to come and talk to me, or show me they still care. I guess it is all part
of being a schizophrenic to be paranoid. I was beginning to think the world,
or the house, was turning against me. I had written a letter trying to explain
to Baby just how much I care about him and how I felt like I didn’t mean shit
to him because I noticed he started treating me like complete shit ever since
we fucked. It did nothing but anger him. The few interactions I had with my
soul mate during this period were very negative. I couldn’t handle being
alone in such a crowded house. These people whom I considered my world
suddenly seemed to no longer want me in theirs. I continued to stay locked
in my room, crying and typing because I didn’t know what else to do. After
two weeks of this and an awkward mushroom trip in a rich crack head house
with my husband and his Obama boyfriend, I finally talked to the one person
who was always there for me, regardless of what anyone else said or did: ma
momma.
It was nice to have someone that put people before themselves like I do. She
listened to the whole story. She listened to my stupid theories and my crazy
ideas and she not once got angry. She didn’t laugh at me, she didn’t turn
from me. She listened. And it helped. Having a friend really helps.
My wife eventually came in my room and we talked. We made up. We made
promises of forever that I could keep but she couldn’t. We were in love
again. Or we were in misery.
I think I knew I wouldn’t last in the house since Electric Forest. It was that
weekend I realized these people I devoutly referred to as my phamily would
never be who I wanted them to be, nor would they ever give a shit about me.
I supposed the “ph” was accurate.
I can barely remember what happened. Ever, you know? All I know is that it
was the first time in the year or two I knew ma momma that we fought. It
was the first time I was ever truly mad at Baby. And it was when I finally
admitted to myself that I sort of despised my wife. I thought our family
vacation could mend some broken bones but oh, no. Bones are too
important. You break it, you buy it. Because that’s what we fought about.
Fuckin’ money. I was the only one without a job, the only one paying full rent
every month, the only one not buyin’ and sellin’ and DOIN’ a bunch of drugs
and yet everyone was coming to me with their money problems. Bitch,
please. I wasn’t trying to spend my grand in the bank but I guess you’re
gonna do it, huh? Thanks a lot, friends.
I wanted to take them on this family vacation to the Double JJ ranch thinking
they would have been where I had been. The thing was, I was seventeen and
at Rothbury finding the Dead Head people saw in me throughout my life as
they watch me try to figure out who the fuck I was and unaware of the
Grateful Dead. But they are all rave kids. I thought that they felt the same
way we did about drugs, and I say we in reference to Jerry Garcia himself:
I think basically the Grateful Dead is not for cranking out rock and roll, it's
not for going out and doing concerts or any of that stuff. I think it's to get
high. To get really high is to forget yourself. And to forget yourself is to see
everything else. And to see everything else is to become an understanding
molecule in evolution, a conscious tool of the universe. And I think every
human being should be a conscious tool of the universe.
That’s the difference between hippies and rave kids. Sure, we both like to do
drugs, but we do them for different reasons. Or it is at least the conclusion I
came up with from what I gathered as a part of both cultures. Who am I to
say? I wasn’t born until 1992, what do I know? But oh, how I wish I would
have been there, in the 60s. I’d pass on the 90s rave thing. Though, I think if
I could see any concert ever, I’d probably pick Peter Gabriel Secret World
Live. Then a Grateful Dead show. The rave culture came up with PLUR to
identify with the effects of the drugs they do, in the same sense that country
musicians pride on drinking beer and country music listeners enjoying beer.
The moral value of PLUR is not really there. Because they only get half-way
through the quote.
To get high, to forget yourself, to see everything else. They like to take drugs
to put off reality because they live lives that don’t matter or that they
essentially don’t treat with the respect they may preach. People get lost in
the everything else, the drug itself. The things you may see or feel or believe
under the influence and they want to see the everything else at all times.
They just want the drug. We, or he and then I, took it a step further. In a
sense, it was like using evil for good. We saw the same everything in a
different place and we wanted to be a part of it instead of just enjoy it as a
pleasant side effect of a substance put into the body. Ultimately, the goal
with acid for people with the same basic moral and understanding of the
ways of the hippie culture was to connect with the music as the musicians
do, which eventually leads you to a very strong bond to the band and most
positive environment. In this, I found my happiness. My people. And
eventually, I was able to keep in sync with this appreciation for them and
love for our world when sober, or conscious, so to speak. It is the use of an
alternate reality to better your own reality and remain as happy as the you
are when the thing that changes the chemicals in your brain when they are
not in you. That’s why hippies had festivals and the rave kids raged every
weekend. We don’t need to be on drugs all the time to be happy, but we do
them at the family reunions, you know? Or perhaps that’s just me. At any
rate, Electric Forest was the takeover of the rave kids on Rothbury. They
drew me in with String Cheese Incident, but it was the biggest substance
circus show I’d ever seen. It was fun, but I was not happy. It didn’t feel like
home anymore. Coming home to our loving home was not the most pleasant
experience, either.
I left in Imma’s hands my car for the weekend. I handed her my keys, smiles
on our faces, telling her she could use my car to get herself to work and
back. How did this bitch repay me? How much did this bitch respect me?
Allow me:
She left trash in my cup holder though there was a garbage can on the
passenger floor
There was a lighter left in the passenger door
A bottle that sat in my cup holder holding a dried out sunflower was
now on the floor; the stem snapped
She used a quarter tank of my gas
Um, sorry, bitch. I’m gonna fucking mention it.
My wife had already wanted her gone and I was being pushed closer and
closer to wanting her gone. They had been making plans of renovating and
moving into the garage so that I could have their room upstairs and the Fire
Man could have my room, but they did nothing about it. They were supposed
to pay $100 a month, but never gave her any money. They spent most of
their time away from everyone and up in the room they weren’t paying for.
No thanks. Not to mention, what kind of girl dates a girl’s best friend and
then tries to make a move on the girl’s ex-boyfriend? Jesus Christ, how
fucking dumb do you think we are? As dumb as my soul mate?
False.
I came to my wife absolutely terrified of what these acts of my car meant. It
seemed so sociopathic of her, which seemed so schizophrenic of me. I didn’t
care. I wasn’t about to live with a bitch who would blatantly disrespect me
and my things and then smile to my face upon arrival. You bet your ass she
wasn’t smilin’ after I went to my car! That shit, in my opinion, is kind of
fucked up. I don’t fucking play games. I wasn’t going to live with a stupid
bitch that wanted to play games with me.
So, okay, I told on her.
I told my wife everything I had bottle up about her and when you are sitting
on the fence, anything will push you over the edge. Especially that shit. I
wanted to avoid a blow out, but my wife wanted the two of them gone
immediately. Imma and I had already been ignoring each other, but she
didn’t mention it to my soul mate until it was my wife that was ignoring her.
He confronted her about it. Asked my wife what her problem was with his
Cuntsack girlfriend.
So, okay, she told him.
This was the Spark That Bled. This was the explosion. Never have I ever
screamed in a bitch’s face so hard. I think she pushed me at one point and a
couple of dudes escorted me out. My wife was passed out on the bathroom
floor at one point; Imma threatening suicide. So much screaming at the top
of lungs. So much. I had never been so angry in my life but would someday
experience anger to a new extreme.
But that’s months from then.
Whatever, it was a whole bunch of drama because I didn’t want my soul
mate dating a two-face skank whore rave blob. Omg. Sorry you think she’s
nice. She’s not. Nice girls don’t do that.
And just as they came, they were gone. My soul mate was willing taken to be
held captive forty-five minutes away, where he was to overdose his soul and
forfeit to douche baggery. I wish I would have just moved out, let them stay,
and left all the drug addicts happily in their own atrocious oblivion. I’m sure
my wife is much happier to have kicked me out as well.
Then there was Christmas in July. Long-story-short: In addition to a plethora
of rave drugs and underage drinking, there was $400-worth of cocaine in a
room the police had a dog outside of.
That’s when I was done dealing with… Dealing. I don’t even mean just the
drugs, either. Shit was fucked—my life was fucked, and everyone was fucked
up. That was my lessoned learned. Having the police and their pets in the
house was my sign. I had plenty of signs from the Universe, but this was my
blatant slap in the face before I got popped in the jaw. But before I could do
shit about it, I was gettin’ curb-stomped.
After a month and half, if that, she was starting to miss Imma. She didn’t
even want to admit that in front of me, but I told her I didn’t care. She could
talk to whoever she wanted. It’s funny how that’s when things began to
change. After Electric Forest, I was off. I had never in my life had a bad trip
at a festival. Never. And coming home to that, coming home to such a house
made me feel like I was on that bad trip again. I already had moments of
ghosts and psychosis, but it had become uncontrollable. Everything I knew
was ripping apart at the seams because of money, drugs, bitches, and liquor.
Plus, I thought I was pregnant.
I guess that’s why you shouldn’t abort that baby mission, kids. It’ll fuck with
you.
Or maybe we shouldn’t make girls feel so guilty about their decision so that
they may learn or make peace with it.
Unless you’re a real heartless bastard and want them to suffer. Shit, man,
I’m human. Maybe a heathen human but a human. We’re only on this Earth
for some short, indefinite amount of time. Why do you want people to suffer
just because they broke one of your rules? Sorry we don’t all believe the
same things. Maybe you should take your face out of your ass and get your
head in space. Maybe you could understand me or anything a little better.
Or, if you DO abort mission in spite of what the God-fearers may say, don’t
follow that with binge eating and starvation with copious amounts of drugs.
That’s what I did, though. Because of all these great ideas about acid. I could
see I wasn’t the only one dealing with my issues. I always saw lysergic acid
diethylamide as a great self-analysis. But it appeared to me that the people I
brought acid were too caught up in their two eyes to see out their third. It
was a grave disappointment. And I think I subconsciously realized I couldn’t
have a baby in that house and it was my body’s way of telling me to get the
flying fuck out of it. There was something about that house. As a clear
believer in energy, I’m sayin’ there is some crazy energy in that house.
But it was my life. It was fun. I loved them. I stuck it out. And of course, I
didn’t have my conclusions during my experiment. I continued to have
ridiculous lazy days and wild nights that are still some of my fondest
memories. I learned rum makes me one happy pirate, and Admiral Nelson is
ma nigga. I’m talkin’ for life on that shit. Oh, my desire. My temptation, my
desire. God, I love her. I’ve been overwhelmed by her beauty. I don’t know
how else to describe it. I’ve sat next to her in her front seat, mad as hell at
this girl, and I couldn’t help but smile because I could just feel how beautiful
she is. It’s crazy.
She’s also the reason I’m all about the Admiral.
To strife of life, to fight with might; to stand back up and fill our
cup; to throw a punch to knock them down and fucking spit before
we frown: Cheers.
Classic Admiral night usually ended with girls at least half naked on the roof.
One night in particular, my desire and I smashed some the night before
going to seven-thirty a.m. mass in a hospital on a Saturday. Yeah. We fuckin’
went. Everyone doubted us but when you make a promise to the Italians
involving God, you fucking keep it. I hooked up with my flower girlfriend that
night and I don’t think either of us slept much. We didn’t have weed so we
scraped a bowl and smoked a fat resin ball followed by mentholated
hundreds. Aunt Bad Ass of the family called us out immediately upon our
arrival. Hey, at least she was laughin’.
I loved having cute girls around all the time. Those nights someone let the
animals out of the zoo with all those ‘whine-o’s on the loose, woo! Those
were some good ass nights, man. My room full of fairies almost brought the
Locos-wasted Fire Man to tears because we wouldn’t let boys in. It was great.
I’d never kick him out of a room now. No way in hell I’d ever let him go
again.
Not that it was my choice in the first place…
The weekend I refused to tagalong to Bass Camp made my realization about
the drugs and the house a month earlier a reality. They came home
completely burned out after the three days of the most fucked up all of them
have ever been. A few days went by and the vibes I once felt, the love that
once ran this house, was gone. It was lost. One night after I had so long
pretended to be happy, I sat on the couch pushed into the corner by the
stairs and I wept. First, silently, but soon enough, unable to quiet myself.
Unable to stop neither the tears nor my mind and unable to move my body
or produce any words. I felt so trapped and stuck exactly where I was, on the
couch in the corner, surrounded by my best friends. They ignored me. I
somehow found the courage to finally reach out to my wife—or so called. Oh,
my life.
FUCK IT.I could not speak but I finally got her next to me. I tried to write to her, but
my hands were so shaky it was illegible. I tried to type but my fingers danced
on keys to avoid the words I had to say. Finally, we end up in the bathroom. I
was on the dirty white tile, she stood above me. I told her what was wrong;
she told me she would not help me. I asked for someone who cared. She told
me no one cared. She told me to shut up and figure my shit out. I guess
people don’t always know how to react to things like that. I am more
unstable and closer to insanity than anyone any of them have ever seem to
have dealt with. But if you saw your best friend having a breakdown, a
complete and utter and obvious breakdown, what would you do?
Just as she said, I need to figure my shit out. I just have a hard time with
reality, with the world around me. It isn’t that all I care about is myself, I just
live in my own world because I don’t fit in with the one around me. But I
don’t like having to live in “Lolly Land” necessarily. I would prefer to live on
planet Earth with all the other Earthlings. I want to have fun and be human
but I feel like all I am is a tool of the Universe. I am a mermaid. I live under
the radar in my submarine and I live my life as I wish because I am a little
discontent with the way things are and I have accepted that I can’t do
anything about it so I just try and live around it. Most people are here but I’m
nowhere to be found. I can’t stay happy anywhere so I just stay locked up
with my head most of the time but that just makes me sad a lot of the time.
Whatever, really. I know it’s never all that bad but sometimes it just really
hurts while it is happening. I know someday it won’t matter but sometimes I
fear it will change my whole life. I’m lost in Lolly Land but I’m not doing so
well on Earth. It isn’t ego in your sense of the word; it’s just where I am. It’s
“schizophrenia” or paranoia but it isn’t because I think I’m the only thing that
matters. I have a hard time putting myself first but I’ve learned I have to. I
don’t think I’m better than anyone. I actually think everyone is equal. But
here, at least in America, people are concerned with being the best of
everything. I believe in making people feel good about themselves and
appreciating them for their talents or beauty, I suppose, but it has become
so over glorified. Everyone is obsessed with being the best but people are
awesome. I hate the ideas of social classes and stupid cliques and all these
things that categorize and rank us in the worst ways. I was kicked out of a
rave clique—the cool kids’ house. I was thrown below the poverty line. Truly
hungry, broke, and lonely for the first time in my life.
Before I turned twenty, I went through a brutal divorce in which I lost my
children, my home, and was left with nothing but my car. I was out of money,
jobless, and incredibly exhausted with nowhere to go but home because of
drugs. What is most ridiculous, as all I am do, is that I was not the one that
was on drugs. The worst thing in the world was the question, “Why?”
Everyone begged to know what happened. The problem was I didn’t have
much to tell them. I did the best I could in explaining the situation as I knew
it, but I felt pretty in-the-dark about the whole thing. At the time, it drove me
crazy, especially because the only reason I had was that I was crazy.
In retrospect, it happened because it was supposed to and that’s all there is
to be said about it.
Sometimes, I am completely baffled at how I get from one place to the next,
but it’s always interesting. I was so incredibly satisfied in the simplest ways
not even so long ago. We were happy. We were all happy. But then the
Cuntsack and my wife kind of ruined everything. Dr. Dre was on point in
saying bitches ain’t shit but hoes and tricks. People often asked me why I did
it. I was questioned as to how I put up with the things I put up with when I
was in that house. I think I can relate to Mountain Girl at 710. Life happened
in the house. It was interesting. I have no regrets of my time spent as a
residential rave kid in the PLURhouse even if she did break our marriage off
in a text message.
I tried to save us. Apologize, forgive, show desire to make up and move on,
but she denied me. She kept her finger pointed at my face and told me it
was all my fault. I wanted to pretend it never happened and start over; she
wanted to remind me of what I had done. Fine. My bad. As she said herself, I
was always there for her. But what she does not admit is that she was not
there for me, as she said she would be. It was unfortunate but true and I was
sad but then I just became pissed off. When a bitch done fuck up, she done
fuck up. Fine. I miss the life we had, but I couldn’t live that life forever. I’m
glad it all happened the way it did, because I had better things to do. I miss
my brothers, but if that’s the way it’s gonna be, so be it. She’s the one that
told me it all works out in the end. And if it doesn’t work out the way you
want it to, there’s always death.
***
I love the argument of disco—as if you can compare raves to discos. I get
that it is the same concept of doing drugs and gettin’ down. At least disco
was feel-good music and not mind-warping, brain-washing sounds. That
sounds pretty harsh, but I don’t know, that’s the way I feel after what I
witnessed. Granted, I didn’t witness the 70s or the 90s in discos and raves,
so who am I to judge? However, they didn’t have the technology we have. It
seems like they come out with new drugs on the daily nowadays! There are
all sorts of chemicals and compounds that I seriously struggle to keep track
of because there is such a variety of bullshit on our rusty copper streets.
Have there always been so many letters in our drug alphabet? Have you
always had so many ways to be up or down or in or out of your mind? Have
we always had such a dangerous plethora of such deadly concoctions
endorsed by mass media all over the globe? It’s almost like they are trying to
set us up for failure. It’s almost like they don’t want us to think for ourselves.
Because the shit is gettin’ kinda scary, wouldn’t you say? Or maybe I had too
much time to think. Maybe I’ve made myself paranoid of the world around
me my secluding myself from it as so. But if anything, technology has made
me paranoid. It is used to track our every move, entice us into evils, tempt
us into sin, and distract us from the point. With a combination of mind-
altering chemicals and intensely coloured lights, it would be very easy to
manipulate a crowd into doing, believing, or saying what you want them to.
Not to mention, there’s a tab on us at all times. Even if you don’t have a
fancy GPS-capable smart phone, you probably have a social security number.
You’ve probably been on a Control list for some shit or other. And if you
haven’t been, do you really exist? Technology enables the tabs to be tighter.
By putting our all on the Internet, we allow people to watch us at all times. I
wouldn’t much mind this if we were allowed to do whatever we wanted, but
we’re not. So what am I paranoid of?
Everything…
“That path is for your steps alone”
ROCK HOPPING
“I am stranger now amongst all of the recognized”
There was never a time I had no place to go, but this was definitely a time I had no place I wanted to be. The only place I ever wanted to be was in the house I created with this heartless bitch. I know I could have gone home, but if I had done that, I would probably be dead. I don’t mean that in a hateful way toward my family. They’ve never done anything wrong but they don’t know how to deal with me any better than anybody else, I included.
Plus, I didn’t want to hurt their feelings.
That sounds pretty stupid because they’re my parents and they’ll love me no matter what and they don’t care what I’ve done but at the same time, how bad would it have sucked to hear that, man? Hey, mom. Hey, dad. The girl I called my wife kicked me out of her house because I had a mental breakdown but she made sure she got all the money she could get from me,
first. Oh, I lost my job, too, so I won’t be replenishing that grand any time soon. I’m gonna resume my breakdown but I won’t have any friends this time because I guess no one likes what you’ve created.
Ouch.
I chose to live in my car. It sounded crazy to the people who tried to take me in as a friend after I lost all of mine and shit, my life. Though there really isn’t much life at the Gates of Hell. I just needed to be alone and on my own to be able to figure out what, exactly, I needed to do. I couldn’t sit trapped at home to dwell on what a shitty person I was because some shitty people wouldn’t speak to me. This would have crippled me if I didn’t stay on the move the whole time. Life is much easier to live when you have to think of your survival, in a way. I had no money, no friends, no home, no job. I was left with nothing but my car, so I put all the junk I had in the house into my car and lived on the streets of Suburbia. And my breakdowns didn’t stop when I left the house. It was something like:
I need a little help being a body because my mind has completely over powered it. I need help deciphering the mental madness and the physical world I have chosen to ignore. Is my body calling out to my head or is my head controlling my body? A mental crisis embodied in a physical form? Or is it too the point that the body can no longer be ignored? I don’t know. It always seems to go away but it continues to come back. But only with times of great stress. So hard to interpret the real world. I’m too busy with the brain in my head. That is all that matters. Whatever you think or want or dream is yours. You just have to believe it. I suppose this is the ego. I have lost touch with the id. I keep its needs met but at a bare minimum because it doesn’t matter as much. I am in love with life and being happy and doing what I can to make others feel the same way because I haven’t always been who I am. And I can find the people who might need a reminder that life is a beautiful thing and they are a beautiful product of it but all they truly care about is not bettering their lives, s0 to speak, or but bettering the world as it is presented to them. Instead of wanting to reach out and spread a certain satisfaction they have with their lives with other that might need them, they will use you for what you have to make their physical world better. Brains and bodies, I suppose. I don’t want to believe it is that simple but the more time that goes on, the more I see the difference. I think. Maybe I should just be content with the world around me, but I’m just not happy here, living the way these people—these bodies do. Not to say that all bodies have no brains, that is not at all the case. But some of them use their brains to, again, advance in the place they are. And a lot of bodies have brains but suffer and struggle where they may land and continue to live not caring. But when you care, you can be so happy… But maybe there is no intelligence in what I say and it is purely the insanity. Maybe I should be on drugs. That’s what the government tells
us what to do. That is the solution most of the kids my age have. If you are depressed or you can’t sit still or if you act out, the solution is to put you on a drug. Why is the world run by drugs?
FACE IT.Thankfully, I was hired at a Coney Island shortly after this happened. It was a job I loved more than I loved West and I made four times the amount of money I made there. Granted, it was going from five bucks a five hour shift to twenty, but still. When you have nothing, you appreciate anything. I loved going to work. I loved having Greek salad and spinach pie and rice pudding available to me at all times, even if it took a while for me to be able to afford it. I loved the regulars that came in and wanted to get to know you, and I think they liked me because I wanted to get to know them. It really made my day to see people smile. It seems like the older you get, the simpler your happiness becomes. After a certain point, you don’t have much to live for except maybe going out to eat once in a while, or once a week, or each day. Either way, I loved it.
I loved that they may have not come to see me, but a lot of them were happy to. That’s enough to make me love my job, no matter how much it pays me. I wanted to make that experience they looked forward to in life an experience worth remembering, even if it was just my thousand-dollar smile. I guess when you haven’t got much, you haven’t got much to live for and if you don’t have much to live for, anything is enough. I lived for people who lived for Tini’s. And the only reason I lived is because my best friend and her Bank of Sympathy. I would have done some dumb shit like starved to death in my backseat or drove off a cliff asleep at the wheel if it weren’t for her, let’s be real. Sometimes, I wish she would have let me but she didn’t and I guess that’s why I’m writing this book.
God, I love that girl. I want to get her back for everything she’s done for me but that would literally require the world.
I most often slept in the Meijer parking lot at night and various parks during the day. I spent too much money at Caribou because I liked having a real bathroom and source of electricity to charge my things. Plus, breakfast and the best coffee? I pretty much lived there when I wasn’t in my car. I utilized this time to finish my collection of short stories I had started in the house. I dreamt of publishing it someday. That dreamed slipped from my hands when my last twenty slipped from the ATM. I ended up spending a lot of time outdoors because it’s free to be there. It was nice to spend some serious quality time with my Mother. I was a locked-up mother for too long.
I had too much time and not enough money, so I was on the look-out for another job or two. In October, I was hired by my first corporate restaurant and a month after that, another to follow. I worked three jobs six days a week and still didn’t have shit to show for it and still had enough free time to have regularly occurring breakdowns in my car. Ugh. Can’t win ‘em all? At least you can win any, bro.
I am so grateful for the Marlboro Boys. I would most certainly be psychotic if it weren’t for those whack jobs. I don’t know what I would have done without my Marlboro girlfriend, either.
During the week, I’d have a place of familiar faces to sit and get high and draw and type and it was okay with me. The weekends were practically torture. My friends were asleep early or out all night, and I didn’t really go to parties unless I was dragged by the Panda or some shit. I spent these Saturday nights alone in a parking lot or driving to the airport to see the lights. I never had a reason to do it, but sometimes, you gotta pretend like you can fly. There was something comforting about the availability of an airport, even though I wasn’t going anywhere but insane.
I spent a lot of time thinking, as always. I thought about my time in the PLURhouse. I thought about my life before it. I thought about trading all the good times in that house for all the times I had before it. I thought about my friends that were not the friends I once had and never could be the friends I wanted. I thought about what I had done wrong and thinking about it helped me realize I didn’t do much wrong, as my real friends had tried to tell me over and over again. I wanted to blame no one but myself for what had happened. I always blame myself first. I’m always the first to apologize because I know I’m hard to deal with. We all have problems. I’m no exception. I think people think I think I’m flawless but I am a flaw. I shouldn’t
exist based on the rules the human race has created. And when you think you shouldn’t exist, it makes reality very hard to deal with.
It is so hard to interpret reality when you live in your head. My paranoia of being pregnant was physically starting to pain me. In reality, I was just fucking hungry! I didn’t know if my body was finally stronger than my mind or if my mind was controlling my body. Everything is scary when you know what nothing is. But most people don’t experience this problem like I do, and so they don’t know how to handle it. Hell, I don’t know how to handle it. That’s the problem. I’m written off as insane and abandon. I can deal with the issues in my head. I have my own solutions—mostly to write. But when it comes to my being, my body, I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how to deal with other people very well. I don’t really take care of my body. Classic schizophrenic, I suppose. I tried to explain this to my wife, but she told me no one cared, so I shut the fuck up. Is it really my fault? Sure. Could she have been a little nicer about it? I think so.
After a couple months, any sadness I had was churned into anger. I wanted my shit out of that house and I wanted this bitch out of my life. The only way I could get in touch with her was Facebook. Ironically enough, the last message I had from her when we were still together was, “I promise I’m breaking.” Ha. Guess I broke first. This is what happens when you try to forgive a bitch for being a bitch:
“Can I come get my shit this week / weekend?”
Two days. No response.
“Listen, I'll go at a time no one is home or I'll bang on the door until I'm let in. I'm not trying to talk to you and be your friend, I want my shit back. And I'm going to come for my things at some point or another, but I'm trying to show a little respect and let you decide when the best time for me to do that is. So please don't make this worse than it needs to be.”
Two more days. Updates her job to a food court place in the mall I worked in. Still no response.
“[My wife.] Why do you still give a shit? This is fucking stupid. Everything happens for a reason and I've got all the reasons I need. You have no excuse to be mad at me or hate me or ignore me because really, this is your fault (though if you believe you DO have the right, fucking tell me why!). But I don't care. I was sad for about two days but now I'm over it because I saw this coming. Leave the high school bullshit for high schoolers and move the
fuck on. Don't you fucking realize that we could die tomorrow and this doesn't matter? I'd just really like to get my shit before it snows.”
Finally. A response:
“Lauren. grow up. I don't need this, and I'm sorry that I am not on Facebook every fucking day. The world, and my schedule do not revolve you. I'm sorry that you don't seem to realize this. What happened was NOT my fault. I didn't have the fucking break down. I didn't shut my closest friends out for three weeks while still living under the same fucking roof as them. I didn't go fucking crazy! Look in your fucking mirror and realize that I tried to do this so that we could still be fucking friends at one point. I'm sorry that you don't see it that way.You want me to be sorry? OK, I'm sorry that I took the time to make decisions for myself instead of waiting on your hand and foot, while working so hard to keep you sane. I'm sorry that I needed to put myself first for the first time in a long time. You obviously still hold a lot of resentment, and if you ever want the fucking ‘closure’ that you so badly seem to want, you need to deal with your fucking issues, and realize that other people have feelings too.
Your shit is in the garage.”“Oh, wow. Seriously?I messaged you multiple times because I saw you doing shit on Facebook on my newsfeed, so I thought you were ignoring me. And they only got nicer because I was trying to be civil. Because holding grudges and ignoring people and all the other bullshit is for high school. You're stuck in high school. I don't care about you. I don't want to be friends with you, especially when you think kicking me out and not speaking to me means we might still be friends? No. That doesn't make any sense and if you really believe that you're an idiot. Friends help friends through break downs. And you told me on your bathroom floor that no one cares. Well, of course I'm gonna disappear. Of course I'm not going to spend all too much time with the people I thought were my friends but don't give a shit. I'm glad I found out sooner than later because now I have friends that like me and not the things I can do for them like all of you. You never liked me, you liked my car. You liked my cleaning. You liked my connections. I never matter. I didn't care because I loved you all so much, I blatantly let you use me. I didn't care. Now, I'm sorry I ever made the mistake of trusting you and opening up to you. This is why I'm not friends with girls. I don't think asking you for help once or letting you buy me cigarettes was waiting on me hand and foot. But I have heard about the house since I've been gone. Sounds like you're really holding it together. Anyway, I'm sure you moved the stuff in my old closet into the garage, but did you get everything? Because I had shit in both front closets, dirty clothes in the laundry room, things scattered in the living room--not to mention my poster on the wall--and I'd like to get it all. I want to
be done forever. I should have listened to everyone when they tried to tell me what a bitch you are.”“I'm sorry you see it that way, and I know nothing I say is going to change that. Your shit is in the garage. I don't want to see you.”“You're not sorry. You've never been sorry for anything in your life because nothing is ever your fault. You don't have to see me. But if I know there are still possessions of mine in that house after getting my shit out of the garage, I'm coming in. Even if it means bringing a cop with a warrant with me.”“Ok Lauren. There is none of your shit in the house, and I promise you, you are wrong. Apparently, you never took the time to actually get to know me. I'm sorry you don't see it that way. I'm done with this. You should try to be too.
Your shit is in the garage, feel free to text [the Fire Man] when you are coming to get it.”
I never got my fucking poster back. I’m missing clothes and CDs and other random shit, but the one thing I needed out of that house was my poster. She claims her animals destroyed it. Unless she means the ones inside her, I don’t believe it.
I did some things in that house I know I shouldn’t be proud of, but I did things in the three months that followed most people would be outright ashamed of. Good thing I’m shameless.
When you don’t have necessities for life, you may surprise yourself with what you will do to get those necessities. To make a long story a short point, I let dudes fuck me for places to sleep. At the time, it didn’t make a difference to me. It didn’t happen every night, but it happened. There was once a dirty bed I had terrible sex in when all I wanted to do was sleep. I woke up to dick attempting to insert itself into my ass. I ended up sleeping in my car, anyway.
I usually didn’t have a problem sleeping in a parking lot. I prefer a bed to a backseat any day, but I didn’t want a bed of pity. I suppose that makes me stubborn. There would be times I was too paranoid to sleep. There was only once I think I had anything to be paranoid about. There was a car that spotted me in my parking space off to the side. It crept up on me; it pulled up slanted in a parking spot and faced my car from two lanes over. I stared at the car with my hammer in my hand, ready to fuck some shit up. The stare down was left in a stalemate and they drove off. Needless to say, I couldn’t sleep where I was.
I didn’t really have anywhere else to go, so I went and parked my car outside of my friend’s house. I knew he wasn’t home, so I left a note on his car. I had finally fallen asleep only to be awoken by a couple dicks and some bitch with a fifth of vodka. Oh, how I loathe vodka. They woke me up and made me come inside. I decided to drink with them, because they wanted me to. The bitch that became ma bitch that night and I went out to fetch another fifth. We played Ride the Bus. That shit’ll get you drunk. After we were good and drunk, we played some strip poker. There was talk about “getting weird”. It wasn’t an idea I was incredibly keen on, but I didn’t think anything would come of it. Suddenly, we were all naked and I was having sex with my homeboy while his homeboy was having sex with his homegirl next to us. We were all really drunk. It wasn’t as awkward as that sounded.
I didn’t really want to do that, but it was done. Time to trade, boys. My friend backed out and said he couldn’t do it, so I thought I was off the hook. I guess if it’s a no, you should just say no. Homeboy to my right was now on top of me. I remained completely still and let him fuck me. All I wanted to do was sleep. I wish my drunk ass would have been less drunk and maybe it wouldn’t have happened that way. All I could think was how I didn’t want to be sleeping in my car. Hey, it’s not rape if you don’t say no, right?
I woke up drunk and naked with seven minutes to get to work. I showed up half an hour late and totally trashed. Bravo, you classy broad. Whatever, no one even noticed.
It’s a funny thing to pretend like you’re normal when you’re not.
I was never a Jill. I never wore a bra when I was Jill. I thought it was pretty comical, in a way, because I came to dance at the host stand and bus your tables. Nothing new. Work was so much fun when I had nothing to do. When Lolly hears music, she dances. It’s just the nature of the being. I can’t help it, I don’t care where I am. You can gage my mood based on the amount I dance, really. I guess it is my lack of shame. Excuse me, I express myself. Don’t mind me, I’m just self-expressive. I’m egotistical or something.
When you spend nights alone in an entrapped space out in the open, it gets pretty lonely. Maybe I’m just too weak. I mean, I went from a team to being abandoned. It sucked as it was but having to go through that time alone was even more painful and probably more harmful. But that’s what I had to do. I had to deal with myself because I knew no one wanted to try to figure me out. I had to figure myself out. I mean, I’ve had a pretty good idea who I am since I went to Rothbury. It’s only gotten more defined since then. But I had
to figure out my own issues with my own feelings, I guess. Yeah guys, how gay, right?
Fuck, too bad everyone can’t fucking admit to that.
Anyway, work was the perfect amount of socializing for me at that time. It was Lolly in disguise as Lauren, and that is the most tolerable Lolly because Lauren is sixty-five. Work was enjoyable because I got to hang out with people and people are my favourite thing, but I didn’t really have to talk to anyone about myself or anything because it’s just work so it was great, I guess, to be in high school again for a while. After my world had crashed, it was quite a relief to have found myself in a high school that liked me maybe possibly more than my real high school did. That was cool. When you have absolutely nothing to do, nothing to live for, nothing to show of your life, anything is enjoyable. That’s why I had three jobs and it was great because I was making money and not going totally crazy!
And there were just those people I needed to meet.
Black Jack is my inner-self a decade ahead of me. Norm is two. He’s dating the girl in me; my love and my true self’s desire. It was such a comfort seeing them or us so happy. They lit up my life in the dark times that were to come upon my arrival anywhere. They were my sanity. Black Jack was my sanity and absolute reality when the whole high school thing started to turn as sour as high school did the first time. While I was there, my life intertwined with Hooter almost immediately because she was the only one to appreciate my goddamn silverware joke:
“Is you rollin’?”“Bitch, I might be.”
I don’t think I actually hung out with anyone until I was living with my parents again. My mom asked me to move back in because of a brewing family drama storm, coincidentally the evening of the morning a cop woke me up at Meijer and had breakfast with my cousin.
Once I was back into my abandoned personal Hell, I started piecing myself a life. I was chillin’ with Hooter, which is how I met ma man. My life was swattled in Jacks and Jills and I was okay with it because I just wanted people to smoke weed with and a place to be. I guess I still didn’t love being or especially sleeping alone. It was almost worse in my bed than my backseat. I don’t what happened, but something did and the result was my stupid Jill getting involved with a stupid Jack. There’s no real point in talking about it
now, but my life was soon to be Fight Club; Roxy Paige as Marla Singer. No matter how badly I wish, I don’t think it’s going to end like the movie.
I was finally piecing my life back together. I wore heavy winter boots about my soul mate because he and Imma broke up which left him back in Suburbia. He still wouldn’t speak to me and I was still so sorry about the whole thing that was my honest mouth’s fault. After my dust has settled, he was the only part of that life I truly wanted back. He continued to ignore me like the rest of them. I didn’t know about his soul, though, or I wouldn’t have cared so damn much.
Meanwhile, love or lust or something slapped me in the face when I first laid eyes on Jack, who I would soon realize was Tyler. I can still remember the first time we held contact as we walked by, jaws dropped and left speechless. I still remember how it felt and how insatiably I wanted him and how I couldn’t even figure out why when he shaved his face. I became friends with a Jill I went to high school with but didn’t know then. When we started talking, she was missing her old best friend almost like I was missing my soul mate, so we instantly clicked being sad girls that smoked weed. At the time, all I knew of her friend was from my desire and a young Parliament girl from back in the day. I was sad for her, but thought he wasn’t exactly worth her time to be sad about.
As it turned out, she sort of had a crush on Jack and being so hung up about my dead soul, I didn’t have the heart to tell her I did, too.
Time went by and my life felt stagnant. I had a copy of Yoshimi Battles the Pink Robots in my car and it stayed on repeat throughout winter. It helped me cope with my life that was significantly more boring and lonelier than it was before. Listening to the album of Yoshimi’s battle gave me the will-power and life to fight my own battle. I was Yoshimi and Wayne Coyne sang to me to keep going and I couldn’t really listen to anything else because there was nothing else that could give me that kind of strength in peace of mind to keep going because I felt so exhausted with life. My pink robots seemed so insignificant and so easier to deal with upon listening to Wayne sing about the way I felt. It makes me feel a need to thank him forever.
I started washing dishes at Tini’s so I left Jack and Jill’s but I continued to party with the Jacks and Jills because I was spending time at ma man’s or wherever Hooter planned for us that evening. I was always DD because I smoke and don’t drink. I was spending more time around this Jack I had my eye on but also the Jill that had hers, too. I was still nervous around him. I am
always smooth as a mother fucker but I fumbled when he was around. I never wanted to look away but forced myself not to stare. The first party I saw him at, we ended up playing beer pong together and I have still not played as good of a game as that one. We won in ten minutes or less. It was sort of ridiculous how wonderful he felt.
I was sick of crying about my ex-soul mate and beginning to love my life in Jack’s box because he’s a Jack-In-A-Box at six a.m. with boys I felt like calling my homeboys. Even though everyone got drunk, it wasn’t often or at least many of them that got completely stupid. We played a lot of Euchre and smoked pot and it was a good environment for me to be in considering the condition my mind was left after my stay in the PLUR blur. And my Jack was inching closer and closer.
One night, he held me like he’d kiss me but I was scared and ran away.
I told Jill. I begged her forgiveness because I couldn’t resist him any longer and no amount of words was about to win anyone’s soul back. Jack made me not care about him, anyway. Maybe that’s what a rebound is, but I was really missing a best friend. Yes, we were soul mates. But his soul overdosed on ketamine when he was trapped in the Heights. I was content with Jack being my new best friend, because it seemed like that was the direction we were headed in, until he tried to kiss me.
The next night, we watched the X-Files. It was the first full episode of the X-Files I had ever seen. It was about a circus of freaks and it was creepy as shit but absolutely fascinating. I went to bed with him that night and weeks to follow. It was the greatest thing I’d had in a long time. I finally had someone I could be alone with. It was immediate comfort, immediate ease. It was all the things I needed and everything I ever wanted. I spent as much time with him as possible. I surprised him with food at work and brought presents for his home. I cleaned up before bed and we had amazing sex every night. Life was starting to feel good again. I was painting and loving and the only word I have to describe this time and this Jack is wonderful.
Oh, don’t forget, folks: My life is not wonderful. My life is ridiculous. And he wasn’t just Jack, he was Tyler.
After a while, I was starting to feel used by the people in my life, him included. He convinced me it wasn’t the way I felt so I felt okay, even though I was unsure. Only a week into March, I woke up in Tyler’s bed to a phone call from my dad telling me my Uncle was going to die. Of course, this was
not just another Uncle. This was my second father. This was the father of my other brothers and sister. This was the worst news I’d ever heard. I went to work and felt like shit. I got off work and wanted Jack. I got Tyler and all his dogs. But I’m an understanding soul and it was okay.
Then I got the call that it was time for last good-byes. It seemed fate was sealed. We had a nice car ride to the hospital, but the gloom overtook when we had finally arrived. All my family that loved him most was there, but one. Timing sucks.
When I finally got to see him, I sat next to his bedside and stared at what had become of my dearest Uncle. He had not moved or made sound for hours. He rattled to me. No words, no movement; just a rattle.
The week of his funeral was one of the most depressed I’d ever been and I didn’t really have a friend I was very close to at the time. I have and always will have my best friend, but we were on opposite schedules, as always. I didn’t have my Cat yet and my desire was still in high school. I wasn’t close with anyone I worked with and as selfish as it was, I couldn’t bring myself to be around my cousin. I couldn’t hide how heavy my boots were but I know it would have made her heaviest boots even heavier and to be honest, I didn’t want my boots to be heavier. It would have broken every bone in our legs. The only person I wanted to and had to be around was him. So what does he do but leave me?
I had enough time to finish my painting of my Uncle, at least.
It’s my fault because I was demanding and unstable and I lashed out like a spawn of the devil. God, I’m just the fuckin’ Anti-Christ, anyway. I scared him like I scare everyone else that’s ever known me or seen me freak out. But damn, dude. Don’t buy me a rose and promise I’m more than a booty call if you can’t make some alone time while I’m grieving about the Uncle you knew was about to die.
Fuck, man.
And when my broken heart wanted to move on, he told me his hurt because he didn’t want it this way.
So I forgave him.
Couldn’t tell you where that left us. Don’t know what we were or what we were doing. Doesn’t really matter, because just a month later my stupid broken heart was slaughtered with an axe.
For the month after my Uncle died, my Aunt was gone to a bottle. Their youngest child was brought to my home and he became like my own. He was truly a blessing to my life. It probably looked inconvenient to have been living in my parents’ house, working all day in Downtown Farm, spending all night in Jack’s Box, waking up to go back to my house to go to Hills, back to my house to sleep, and back to Downtown Farm. I’m glad that was my routine. It was irregular to my life and fit just right in my circus style of living. Plus, I needed that time alone in my car to be Yoshimi and fight my Pink Robots.
One relationship of mine among others was diminishing but some were growing stronger. Somehow, there is light at the end of our darkest tunnels, for the sun will always shine after it storms. If it weren’t for my Uncle’s death, it would not have inspired some life. I would have never found the calm to grasp during times I should crumble had it not been for my shattering actually breaking my heart and not just rocking my world. It moved me to love but I had to start pushing away. Not from everyone, though. I was done with Jacks and Jills and parties and people for the most part. I told my Cat he reminded me of my Uncle and our bond that was slowly forming over the course of the last eight months finally clicked. We connected and we have not broken since. We freak out but our friendship was growing invincible. I was reminded how important the people I had were, even more so than after my divorce.
We were often restless doing the same things over and over again. We drove around and smoked weed, ate food at our diner, smoked more weed, and went home. Spring was beginning to happen and things were already in the midst of change. My desire was so close to graduation. We just wanted warmth and freedom and maybe something more. She was sick of being tied to someone who wanted her for life at a time she was too young to know what she wanted in life. I had been there so I understood what she was feeling. I broke up with my HSBF. I encouraged her to break up with her HSBF and that’s what happened.
Turns out, he’s a psycho…
Coincidentally though I don’t believe in coincidence, Hero came back into my desire’s life as my Cat became more involved with mine. He was starting to
desire my desire and she couldn’t deal with Psycho being controlling and she was unsure about Hero even though she loved him for so long that she didn’t know what to do because oh my god, she was seventeen. High school drama, yo. It happens. It’s heartbreak and it happens. Better than never knowing love, isn’t it? But as we’ve seen, only to some of us.
Some two weeks after my life took yet another drastic turn, we took a walk down Sunny Street some school night because we were restless and mom always wanted her home early but she loved me and my best friend enough to let her take a walk with us before bed. We bitched as sometimes bitches do. We bitch about literally Everything as we always did, going nowhere with it. Wayne Coyne was following me on Twitter so I was all dreamy about him. My best friend was frustrated with the love of her life that just so happens to treat her a bit like Tyler treated me. My desire was confused about high school life and curious about life after high school. We were all desperate to love, in a way, because sometimes Death forces you to do that.
We walked down her dark and winding roads and observed that even though it was terribly dark and almost creepy, her neighborhood is absolutely gorgeous.
“I’ve recently come to realize I’ve always loved things that are Hauntingly Beautiful.”“You’re kind of Hauntingly Beautiful.”
We dreamt up that Tim Burton should see this neighborhood because it’s got his style and I thought my desire was practically a Tim Burton character as it was because damn, she’s pretty much Alice or Donna but a total bad ass. We talked about how something like a movie being made in a city like Suburbia would be exactly what everyone there needed, to maybe feel important for a moment or take pride in something. All the kids we know are total sad kids and their parents are pretty much just as miserable. I laughed about how Wayne Coyne and my brother should make the movie with Tim Burton because I wanted Wayne Coyne involved with my life and my brother involved with my schemes because he’s the kind of kid that will rule this world someday. I even told him about the idea and he was so against me being crazy and the Flaming Lips because he couldn’t see beyond the acid. [At first.]
“We just need a reason for people to come to Suburbia.”
I couldn’t even tell you how strange it really is to think about my life. People don’t ever pay attention to the little details I pay attention to and they think I’m crazy for caring about the details that seem so unimportant or completely miniscule when in reality, big pictures are created with fine detail.
It’s almost sickening how powerful our minds can be. Years before, I took the lesson of learning to watch what I say, but my brain has no filter and my mouth does not hold back. Plus, I really do have good intentions. I don’t mean to curse or mess with dark matter and I don’t want to do wicked things. I think things may come across that way, sometimes. I always struggled with this idea that my body was stifling the pain it felt from my brain unless I was stoned enough to feel it, but reflecting on conversations we once had so nonchalantly makes me feel like my brain reigns the dominate. Reality is the way you perceive it and I realized my pain. I manifested emotional feeling into physical pain.
The brain is the most powerful tool in your life, but you must really know what you want to use it correctly. I think I produce positive energy and I truly want the best for everyone all the time. I never want people to get hurt or be hurt. I want everyone to know what it’s like to be happy.
I could see that Psycho was not happy.
My desire had finally broken up with him but he wanted to continue to be with her or simply near her. I recommended she not speak to him much, but she felt so bad. She didn’t want to just ignore him but it’s so hard to get rid of feelings for someone you loved that you continue to look at. I knew that feeling pretty well. I think most of us have felt that way at some time in our lives. Some people simply deal with it better than others. Psycho didn’t know how to deal.
The next time I was with my desire down her street was not as pleasant as the walk we had before. This time, she had no intention of taking that walk. She came home to find Psycho waiting outside her house for her. She didn’t want him near her house so she walked away. He followed her, picking a fight with her, harassing her. She called me to come pick her up so I got there as soon as possible.
I pulled up to find her and Psycho in each other’s faces. As she came toward me, he continued to chase after her. She attempted to open my passenger door, but he was there to shut it on her.
Oh. Ohh, fuck no.
I opened my door and flew half way across the roof and at the top of my lungs with my finger in his face I asked him who the fuck he thought I was and why the fuck he thought that was okay and explained how my desire did not belong to him and even if she did how that still wouldn’t be okay and how he should never do that ever again or at least not in front of me and I loved him but no.
She got in my car and immediately cried.
“I can’t deal with this.”“Then don’t talk to him.”
I tried to pull away but he stood in front of my car. I turned around and we cruised with a bowl to calm the fuck down a little. I dropped her off in a slightly better but still shaken state and went home. Three a.m. rolled around and I got a text from a number I didn’t have in my phone saying, “I’m sorry.” It was him.
“Don’t be sorry. Just don’t do it again because that is not okay. She is not yours. You have to move on. I still love you and so does she, just not like you love her.”
“You should have just hit me.”“[Psycho]. I would never do that.”
It was probably one of the last times I saw and spoke to him. My desire was
trying to hang out with him less but he guilt-tripped or tricked her into seeing
him. His birthday was coming up and he didn’t want to be alone and he
missed her and was going to be leaving soon and anything he could think of
to keep her around. But now Jake was around and she really really didn’t
want Psycho around because she wanted to help Hero because she couldn’t
help Psycho. Psycho couldn’t help himself.
Hero needed a place to stay a couple nights. He wasn’t doing well with his
tragic Suburban addiction, but my desire always held him dear to her heart,
even when he was absent. Mom allowed him to stay with open arms the first
night. He slept on the couch in the basement. Psycho knew about it from my
desire because she didn’t want him to find out for himself and freak out.
Hero still didn’t have a place to stay, so mom granted the grace of one more
night on the couch in the basement but that was it. No more than these two
nights.
The morning of April fourth I had an incredibly strange dream. I was in a sort
of warehouse, but bigger than any other I had seen before. It was as though I
had fallen into this noisy, spacious setting I was unfamiliar with very
unexpectedly. I didn’t know what I was supposed to do, but I noticed a group
of people, so I walked toward it. On my way, I passed Hugh Laurie. It struck
me as very odd because I couldn’t figure out why Hugh Laurie of all people
was in my bank of subconscious faces because I don’t watch television very
often at all, and I have never seen a full episode of House in my life. As I
continued to walk, I noticed the group of people I was heading toward was
people I know. It was Marlboro kids. I saw one of my girls, so I thought I
should go say hi, but then I noticed Panda, so I decided not to. I veered right
to avoid the crowd—even though I always choose left—and was faced with
Wayne Coyne in the distance with open arms and calling my name. I was
startled that he was happy to see me, let alone know my name, but I went
with it. I approached him and we had greetings of long lost friends or
something and we sat on this big red couch that flew. It was like a magic
carpet ride, cuddling and giggling with Wayne Coyne, but a couch instead of
a carpet. It was great. I was having the time of my life: flying room to room
in a place I’d never been, passing strangers I didn’t want to speak to, and
enjoying all that is Wayne Coyne while doing it. But then I noticed someone
following us. Somehow, the entire world couldn’t keep up with us but there
was some creep in a Jason-style mask on our ass at all times. It was
absolutely terrifying, but Wayne Coyne didn’t seem to mind. I didn’t say
anything, because I was just rolling with the punches. If Wayne Coyne wasn’t
freaking out, I didn’t feel a need to freak out. We managed to get a couch
through a standard door frame and suddenly we were trapped in a room with
this guy that had a bloody chain saw. Wayne Coyne could no longer be
oblivious to this guy being there, but he still wasn’t freaking out. We faced
him as the couch crept back, my dreaming heart racing in fear, but Wayne
Coyne was still smiling. People began to come out of the warehouse
woodwork applauding, and in place of the assumed murderer were a couple
hot chicks in bikinis on a mechanical bull. My fear and confusion subsided
when I realized I was on the set of a movie. I went back to laughing with
Wayne Coyne until I reluctantly woke up.
I wanted to keep dreaming, because it was becoming so enjoyable again. I
wasn’t as happy in real life as I was in the dream, and I wanted to sleep
forever. But in reality it was 10:30 and I had to work at 11:00. I walked into
Tini’s with a great mood. I had a dream about Wayne Coyne! I had a smile on
my face all morning. And it made my whole day that much better. I had a
few tables and was told I got to leave at three instead of eight and it was
actually a good day.
Until about two o’clock.
That’s when I got a call from a Parliament girl. There was a text of an urgent
message to call her back, so I took a cigarette from my Irish queen and went
out back. She asked me if I knew why my desire’s house was surrounded in
caution tape.
I did not know.
But I sure as hell was going to find out.
A. S. A. P.
I immediately called my best friend and the game of Clue had begun. I went
back inside and calmly explained to my co-workers that my cousin’s house
was a crime scene and I had to go. There wasn’t much of a problem leaving.
I was going seventy down Seventh, my heart racing faster than it had in my
dreams. I had no fucking idea what was going on. All I knew is that my desire
was supposed to be at school, Hero stayed the night at her house, mom was
home, dad was at work, and Psycho was... Psycho. I didn’t really have
thoughts in my head, probably for the first time in my life. I did think to call
my Jill that loved Hero. Just in case. I didn’t have her number because of all
the stupid phones I’d gone through. I had to call Princess to get it. Of course,
I could not prevent this girl from freaking out. I didn’t know what was going
on, but I didn’t want anybody to freak out. I wanted to freak out, but I had to
figure it out first. The ocean is a dark place. I didn’t want to give it too much
thought because I didn’t want to think of the possibilities. Poor, sweet
Princess was in a panic because she would have never imagined this in her
life. I guess no one really could and we were yet to discover what had
happened. I suppose because of the police line, we knew someone was dead.
I suppose the panic was over not knowing who it was, because anything
could have happened. Anyone that slept in my desire’s home the night of
April third was now potentially dead. I didn’t want to be the bearer of bad
news. I didn’t want anyone to freak out yet. But I had to call Jill.
I was driving down the winding road only a few blocks away from my
desire’s. I had to calmly explain to her that I didn’t know what happened, but
Hero stayed the night in a house that was now a crime scene. She hung up
on me. I pulled up to my desire’s and her street was blocked by cop cars. I
noticed her homegirls on the next street. I parked my car and immediately
confronted an officer. I asked them to let me in or tell me what was going on,
but they wouldn’t tell me anything. They wouldn’t let me see my aunt or
uncle or even let me know if my desire was alive. They asked my name and
for me not to talk about it. I walked away and sat curbside to the house with
the other two girls. After some time passed, a cop walked over and pulled
me aside. It went something like this:
“What is your full name?”
“.”
“Where do you live?”
“..”
“And how did you find out about this?”
“…”
“And where does she live?”
“I don’t know she moves around a lot.”
“Can we have her phone number?”
“…Sure…”
I could not see a point to the questions they were asking. It’s Suburbia. If
there’s police line around somebody’s house, this one Parliament chick is not
going to be the only one that notices. We ran through possibilities of what
could have happened: overdose, suicide, robbery, kidnapping, fleeing,
anything. Nobody wanted to jump to the murder conclusion immediately, but
there wouldn’t have been police line for anything else. My uncle’s truck was
gone, my aunt and Hero’s cars were still in the driveway, and my desire’s car
wasn’t running yet. The worst had happened, and it was now a matter of who
and who-done-it.
Jill texted me to let me know that Hero was dead. His best friend had told her
before the cops had told me anything, and yet they were asking me
questions about the last time I talked to my desire or if she was in school
that day or if my family was living or dead. Jill had given me an answer to
one of the many questions burning my brain, but also made me realize I
gave the cop the wrong number. I had a lot of extra contacts in the month of
April. He asked me to refrain from calling people. Again, I couldn’t see the
point to that. When something big or dramatic happens in Suburbia, it
becomes a social event. It is the talk of the town and the civilians are
relentless. It was not a secret that something went down at my desire’s.
Maybe if you don’t want the public to know about it, don’t wrap it in yellow
plastic.
An hour later, more of her homegirls showed up. They sat with the three of
us and we smoked Marlboro Menthols because one of us wanted to quit. I
had already quit, but I suppose once a smoker, always a smoker. This was
the first of many last cigarettes. All we could think about was our desire and
all we could talk about was how angry we were with the cops. We tried
making jokes to calm our nerves, like Psycho coming and killing everyone.
Ha ha.
“That doesn’t happen to people we know,” some hopeful young girl spoke.
Some left and others came. They immediately asked what happened and we
told them we were clueless. The artist had noticed Psycho’s car was outside
of the house. At that moment, the nightmare in my imagination was
confirmed. The jokes we made in fear were no longer fictional. It was
impossible to deny that Psycho had finally snapped.
Shortly after the car unloaded its people, a couple of boys on bikes showed
up. And walking down the street was a pack of party girls. The kids on bikes
volunteered the information that my desire had been taken out on a
stretcher earlier that day. Homeboy walked up to a cop and that cop told him
my desire was fine. In the midst of rumours being flung around this freshly
formed group of people, a woman in an SUV pulled up to inform us that her
BlackBerry stated that two adult bodies and one teen body were found in the
house.
So let me get this straight:
I get a phone call from a girl I went to high school with that was living down
the street telling me my cousin’s house is a crime scene and then I’m
interrogated on how she found out about it—which was because half of the
SPD was there? And even though I’m family, I’m given no information on the
whereabouts or well-being of my cousin or her parents because it would
affect their “investigation”, but they answer the first question asked by the
next kid to show up? And even though three of us sat outside of her house
freaking out for two and a half hours, no one thought to mention to us that
they had seen our desire alive that morning until there was a gossip circle to
inform? And even though the cops couldn’t tell us anything because of their
fucking “investigation”, some bitch that didn’t know anyone in that house
has more information found online instantly than I had from being at the
scene of the crime for three hours? I’m not allowed to call the loved ones of
those that were in the house, but you’re allowed to publish a news article
about it on the public Internet?
Well. Fuck every last one of you.
At that point, I was completely infuriated. If no one was going to tell me
anything I wanted to know, I guess I was going to have to find it out myself. I
crouched behind the two I had first found and whispered to them that I was
going to find my desire myself and asked if they would like to accompany
me. As we walked to my car, we were caught in the act of dip settin’.
“Where you guys goin’?”
“Home.”
“Oh, okay. Let me know if you wanna hang out later, love you!”
“We won’t.”
First stop, St. M’s. Of course our ten minute drive turned into twenty because
we live where they thrive on construction. I called my best friend who was
with my negative girlfriend and in the process of calling other hospitals. I
talked to my mom, because it’s better than hearing it on the news. We finally
made it to St. M’s only to find out she was not there. As we went back to my
car, the messages from Jill began.
“I want nothing to do with you or your family ever again.”
“Cool, you don’t even know what happened. You’re a stupid bitch.”
On our way to the next hospital, my best friend called to confirm she was
there. There was no speed limit in my mind, traffic was to be weaved. I had
absolutely no fucks within ten miles to give. Meanwhile, the words of hate
continued to come from Jill:
“I hope you rot in hell.”
“I’m sorry your old best friend that didn’t give a shit about you is dead, but
you’re an ignorant fucking cunt if you think this is my fault.”
“You greasy bitch—”
“—LAUREN,” my passeneger blurted to alert me to look up at the car in front
of me who was stopped and putting their blinker on. Oh, thanks for the
heads up. This is a perfect example of why I do not condone texting and
driving. It is dangerous and not worth the lives you may sacrifice. But at this
point, all rules were off in my world. I slammed on my brakes and, by some
fucking miracle, I stopped what must have been half a centimeter away from
this woman’s car. But in the same moment I had not hit this woman and she
turned safely into the parking lot, some dumbass rear-ended me. Fantastic.
The three of us were jolted forward as all the shit in my car played musical
chairs among itself. I got out of the car and immediately when to talk to the
woman. She looked slightly terrified, as though she felt that it was her fault.
“I’m so sorry ma’am, did I hit you? I think I came close but I don’t think I did.
My car looks okay, looks like your car is okay.”
“Yeah, I think it’s fine!”
“I’m actually on my way to the hospital to see someone and I kind of just
have to go.”
“I’m so sorry, go ahead!”
“I’m sorry, thank you!”
I threw her a peace sign as I walked away. She was very sweet. The one that
hit me, however, not so much. Few people in this world have seen me truly
angry. There have only been several pairs of ears that have heard me
scream on the top of my lungs. This boy was one of those people. I charged
at the driver standing in the road clueless.
“What the fuck is wrong with you, you fucking dumbass?”
“Why would you slam on your brakes in front of me?”
He had chewed up Cheez-Its in his mouth as he tried to defend himself.
Hungry, hungry highon doesn’t know how to multi-task.
“Because someone slammed on their breaks in front of me, you fucking idiot.
I’m on my way to the fucking hospital right now and I don’t have time to
fucking deal with this. You’re fucking lucky you didn’t smash my car. Learn to
fucking drive.”
“…Bitch!”
I was already half way to my car by the time he said anything, my middle
finger high in the air until we turned onto Eight Mile. The cherry on shit
sundaes: Retrospectively hilarious and absolutely ridiculous. We finally made
it to the hospital, where I found an uncle in the lobby.
“Hi—“
“So [my aunt]’s dead.”
“Oh.”
Another question answered. I had been ready to hear this statement about
any or all of those that were home, but I suppose I hadn’t been ready to hear
it like that or just then. I was gathering all information before I felt anything
about it. My adrenaline had been pumping since two p.m., and the accident
felt like a fat rail of coke. My Aunt stood and cried about not being able to
see our desire and my aunt she didn’t like being dead and told me more lies:
“The police said the Psycho tied up the Women and beat the Hero to death
and made them watch and then shot her mom and then shot himself and left
our desire all tied up and it’s so horrible, Lauren! They won’t let anyone see
her! I’m her aunt, I raised her and they won’t let me see her! Isn’t it awful?”
Yes. Very.
I have never nor will I ever feel the anger I felt that day. I had a new hatred
for Psycho that I had never had for anyone I have ever known. They put us in
a private waiting room. My Aunt kept crying and repeating herself, I was
cursing up a storm, and the other three were quiet. My Uncle requested I
stop cursing. My best friend and girlfriend showed up just in time to keep me
from freaking out. I apologized and left the room, because the cuss words
were not going to stop anytime soon. As I left the room, more people began
to show up. She couldn’t be seen, they couldn’t help, nothing could be done.
It was more people to freak out and I didn’t want anybody freaking out. I
showed them to the box they were permitted to sit in and continued outside.
I woke my Cat up with the phone call before he had to work. I wanted him to
hear it from me before the media. My mom called me back crying
hysterically about how she was so happy it wasn’t us and she is so sad and
you know, more people freaking out. I re-entered the lobby as my family
stormed the hospital. Time for a cigarette.
We snuck off to my best friend’s car and the homegirls got picked up
because they understood the uncontrollable chaos that was happening
around us. My cousin and her boyfriend showed up not knowing they knew
the Hero. I’ve never seen anyone look as pale as he did. Hero was like his
little brother. Small world, huh? Or maybe it’s just a small little Suburbia. Just
when I thought my heart couldn’t break anymore, it did. I started to feel
overwhelmed by everyone and everything, so I went to the bathroom. I
hadn’t eaten that day or consumed liquid since leaving work. It was a two-
minute rest in a room. I opened the door to find her boyfriend waiting outside
of it.
“Oh, sorry.”
“Oh, it’s cool… So. It wasn’t [Hero] like the one I know, right?”
“Yeah. It was.”
“Like, you’re sure? Tall, skinny, blond boy?”
“Yes. You knew they were friends.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“I’m sorry.”
There were no words left to say. The slight glimmer of hope he had in his
face that it wasn’t the boy he knew was now completely gone and replace
with a look of absolute defeat. All I could do was wrap my arms around him.
It would be my first of many comfort hugs. You could not imagine the pain
until it happens to you, but it doesn’t seem to happen to many people. It
happened to an entire city, though. Everyone in Suburbia, at the very least,
knew of Psycho or Hero, if not our desire. For most of those people, someone
they loved was killed by someone they knew, or someone they knew was
killed by someone they loved. For a few of us, someone we loved was killed
by someone we loved. And on top of that, there was an army of badasses
ready to piss on Psycho’s grave and mutilate his dead body for killing the
Harley Queen. But no one aside from my desire will ever know the feeling of
having loved all three.
I went outside. After seeing the boyfriend a ghost himself, I wish horrible
things upon Psycho’s ghost. I sat with my ladies, completely enraged. People
were overwhelming. It wasn’t helping anything. It was just more reasons to
freak out. There were so many things going on around us, in my head. We
didn’t need a bigger audience. In retrospect, I’m glad it was people who
actually care about our desire and not just people that wanted to be there to
say they were there. One of the homegirls later apologized for showing up. I
did not accept her apology, because she had nothing to be sorry for.
Part of the reason it was so hard to deal with more people freaking out was
because no one knew the whole story. The story changed multiple times
while we were still at the hospital. Somewhere down the line was the
discovery of the axe. After hours of waiting outside her house and more
hours outside of a hospital, we still were not allowed to see our desire. We
were told her dad was to be the first to see her. I found that to be a sound
decision. The only problem I had with it was my freshly wounded Uncle being
interrogated at the station while his daughter was interrogated at the
hospital. Another problem I had with it was being told my Uncle was going to
be brought to the hospital, when instead, she was moved to the station. And
to the cop shop the circus traveled.
The ladies and I dropped off my car before going to the police station. I
noticed a cop down the street; thank you additional adrenaline and
unnecessary paranoia. I talked to my dad and gave him a quick rundown of
what was going down. I mentioned he shouldn’t talk to any cops, either,
because they weren’t being nice. He said he probably wasn’t going to be an
issue. Of course, it never was. We smoked another cigarette on our route to
Five on the Farm. A pack of us waited another hour in the lobby of the police
station. At this point, it was all over the news and my phone was beginning
to blow up. My Irish queen had texted me to ask how my cousin was.
“Did you see the six o’clock news?”
“Oh shit, my sister was telling me about that! That was your cousin?”
“Yeah.”
“Oh my god, no way! So that was your aunt that got killed?”
“Yeah.”
“Oh my god. I’m so sorry! Do you want to drink some beers and talk about
it? Or tequila! Tequila makes everything better!”
I got a good laugh out of that because even though I did not choose Jose that
night, tequila does make everything better. I appreciated her offer and
appreciated having her in my life even more. Even though she couldn’t do
much to help, she made me laugh at a time nothing was funny. She made
me smile when my world was ending, and for that she will always be my
fucking girl. I had another girlfriend blowing up my phone. Every time she
called I would ignore it and let it ring. After a few times, I started rejecting
the calls. If I didn’t called you, we aren’t speaking at the moment. It was not
really anything personal to anyone, but many people took it personally. I
didn’t want to freak out and talking to a bunch of people who were freaking
out wasn’t going to make it any better. So of course there was a small
dispute, of course over text messages. I was still very angry that my family
was still being kept prisoner from us, I still didn’t know what the fuck
happened, and I was still trying not to freak out. I didn’t need people asking
me questions I had no answers for. She got mad because she just wanted to
know if my desire was okay.
Okay? Watch the news.
The sun was now setting. It must have been seven by the time my Uncle
made of steel finally came walking through that door. He went outside and
the group bum-rushed after him. All he really said was that he didn’t really
have an answer to anything. All he knew was that his daughter was alive,
and he was alive. So they must live. As all of us need to. Shortly after he was
finally released to us, she was wheeled before us. Again, the crowd swarmed.
It was almost unreal. There were tears of joy and sadness, words exchanged,
hugs given. All that good shit.
My cousin and her boyfriend were going to see Hero’s brother. He was really
nervous because he was in shock and he didn’t know what to say to him.
There was a time I didn’t know how to deal with this kind of thing either, but
sometimes, you just have to. Sometimes, you have to realize that no matter
how badly it hurts you, other people are hurting, too. And some more than
you. When your biggest fears manifest in front of your face, do exactly that
and face them. There is nowhere to run but to your grave and many people
fear that more than anything. Even if you can’t think of a single word to say
to make someone who is grieving feel any better, being there with them and
alive just helps.
It is very hard for many to fathom how sensitive life truly is because we are
naturally afraid of what we do not know, and we don’t really know what
happens when we die, and that is very unsettling for those who love to live.
But when someone we love dies, it is hard to ignore the fact that it really can
happen to anyone at anytime. Many people would rather their life not
thinking about death because they don’t want to imagine their life being
over. This is why we have religion. People want life to go on forever, so we fill
the emptiness of outer space—all that darkness, the nothing—with a higher
power that will take us to another world when we’re done on this one. We
give reason and purpose to dying, though it is simply a part of life. With life
you are given a death sentence. It is the only thing we can be sure of being
alive. There is no way to know what will happen, but it is certain that it will
end in death. I’m not much of a believer in suicide for this reason, because I
think the only way to know if you like it or not is to let it happen. Sometimes,
it gets hard. And having accepted death as a part of life, I can’t say I haven’t
wanted to give up. But I never do. I might as well try and make the best of
the one I get. Unless, of course, there are more, which I personally do
believe.
I couldn’t have been angrier at Psycho for not living through a break up. My
desire and I have grown up together. I know her better than probably
anyone. I know how amazing she is. I know he would have loved to love her
forever, but she was in high school. They hadn’t been together for a full year
yet. She was seventeen. And she loved Hero more. She always had, but they
were never able to be together. Their lives finally synchronize.
Psycho was a great guy. He was loving, intelligent, good looking, charming,
and a truly good guy. There was no reason he couldn’t have found another
girl to love had he given life a chance. I know he had problems, but who
would have known a high school break up would have made him snap? I
loved him, even after everything that had happened the month before this
happened. I wanted to help him, but his desire being with him out of pity
would have not helped for long. It was best they were apart, but he couldn’t
get over a fucking break up. He felt the need to ruin her life because of it.
And as all of these people were staring down a disaster zone, so many
people he left completely devastated because a seventeen-year-old high
school girl broke up with him, I thought I would never hate anyone more than
I hated Psycho.
How could he have done this? Why would he do this? What the fuck was he
fucking thinking? What the fuck is she thinking? Is she thinking? Why her
mom? Why Hero? Why not just himself? What does it even matter? All I knew
was that I’m lucky she is alive and he is lucky he is dead.
But because she was alive, we had to live.
We hauled our newly crippled out to my best friend’s car. She sat up front
and the rest of us piled in the backseat. Before we could even leave the
parking lot of the cop shop, I awkwardly broke the ice and asked the
question on everyone’s mind:
“So… I don’t know, like, if this is an appropriate question and I don’t really
care either way but I was wondering if you possibly… wanted to… Smoke… A
bowl?”
“Yes, I want to smoke a fucking bowl.”
It was packed by the time we left the parking lot. We drove around some
neighborhood and got stoned because if there was ever a time we needed
to, it was that moment. Our cousin didn’t smoke because she was an out-of-
commission highon and my girlfriend only hit it once or twice because she
was a comeback highon, but the three of us were total highons. It also
allowed our desire to talk about what happened at her own pace while
literally moving in a forward motion. None of us had eaten that day, so I
called Tini’s for a to-go order. My princess answered the phone, frantic. She
was so relieved we had her, she wasn’t even that mad about our order. We
got to Tini’s and I went inside and had to tell them what had happened. My
princess was so sad for our desire. The cook was exclaiming that he had
seen them in there before. Tini couldn’t really comprehend what happened,
but she knew it was bad. Couldn’t believe it was “right there in Suburbia, oh
wow.”
We took the Greek salad, rice puddings, and free lemon rice soup courtesy of
my little princess to our new temporary home at our Uncle’s as an amazing
team of people prepared the crime scene back into a home. He was a really
good sport about this whole thing. He accommodated to us handful of
teenagers quite well. I’m sure it’s really shocking to see the full-blown circus
in times of major trauma at his age. I went home with my girlfriend to briefly
discuss with my family what had happened and what was to happen for an
indefinite period. I gathered clothes, paint, my laptop, and phone charge. I
suppose you could call them the basics. My brother came to talk to me first.
He, like me, was trying to stay calm. He was in high school, so this was a lot
different for him. His friend called him earlier in the evening, asking him if he
had heard about what happened on Sunny Street because he lives over
there.
“Yeah... That was my cousin.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah.”
From that moment on, my brother was to be questioned as much as any of
us by the brutal halls of Psycho’s alma mater. He was the only one of our
relatives in high school while this happened. When your business is involved
with the six o’clock news, suddenly everyone wanted to be in your business.
This applied to my brother, though he was not as close with the deceased,
because he had to deal with the feeding frenzy face-to-face. We hid in our
Uncle’s living room as the people spoke.
My parents came home. The mood was getting worked up, so I kissed them
good-bye and raced over to the art supply before they closed. I spent half of
my paycash on canvases, paint, and an assortment of other things to
attempt to make my desire smile. Which was a seemingly impossible task,
but I did my best to do it. I parked my car on the yard like it was Christmas
Eve. My arms full of bags of teenage girl nearly gave our Uncle a heart
attack, but he did nothing but welcome us in. My desire was laid out on the
couch and there was family everywhere. I finally had something to eat—that
Greek salad began to vanish at rapid rates. The rice pudding was rationed
and shared among all the rice pudding lovers. My desire didn’t have much of
an appetite; not that it really mattered because she couldn’t really use her
jaw just yet, anyway.
All I could keep thinking is he's lucky she's alive and lucky he's dead.
I was just furious about the other two.
The family feeding frenzy left and soon our support group disbanded. My
saddest Uncle fell asleep in a chair watching television, the only way one
could sleep on a day as such. My desire went to the bedroom our Aunt and
Uncle once shared. We hadn’t shared this bed in years, some Christmas Eve
us “big kids” found ourselves atop a pile of coats. We talked a little bit before
our bodies passed out on us, exhaustion being the only thing to put us to
sleep. We could not speak of the fears lying within us of what, exactly,
tomorrow had to bring us.
Waking up felt good for about five seconds. I didn’t remember falling asleep,
so it was kind of like, “Oh, I slept. Nice.” Followed by the reminder of why I
hadn’t expected to sleep. It was the heaviest weight I have yet to bear. You
can’t imagine what it feels like to have an axe-murderer in your mind and
ghosts in your heart until they are there. It’s heavy, man. It’s a really heavy
thought. And I just felt guilty for how low I wanted to hang my head. I was
ashamed that I wanted to give up because I knew my desire was hurting so
much worse. This was so heavy on my body, she’s in an immobilizer! As
much as I loved my aunt, as much as I loved Psycho, as much as I wished I
could have loved Hero, she loved all of them so much more and so much
longer. I didn’t want to get out of bed. But alas, she was already gone.
I got out of bed because I had to. I found my desire slightly catatonic and
painting. Happy birthday, Psycho. Way to throw Suburbia into the ashes of a
Hell fire before you turned twenty.
I looked at food and ignored it for the moment. I went back to the bedroom
and made a few phone calls. I contacted a select few friends as well as the
only high school counselor worth talking to at Parliament. We talked about
conditions in which our desire could go back to school which resulted in the
ultimate conclusion that she probably would not be returning to high school.
I took a week off Tini’s and an indefinite absence from the Italian restaraunt.
My life was on hold.
Even though we didn’t exactly feel like being in public—especially my desire,
especially in Suburbia—staying locked up in someone else’s house for a
week straight would have made us just as crazy as facing the unrightfully-
opinionated world outside of it. Uncle was at work most of the day and
people, though in and out of the house all day, never stayed long. We still
had an over-whelming amount of food before us and little to no appetite.
She, of course, in too much pain to chew much food.
So to pass the time bound to a house that wasn’t our home whilst having no
obligations to anything, we spent a lot of time on the back patio smoking
bowls and cigarettes. What? So fucking judge me. We are breaking the law to
ensure our own sanity, so fucking put me in jail. Would you rather us starve
ourselves? Would you rather find us stoned or strung by our necks in the
bathroom? Go ahead, arrest me and take my meds. See what happens when
you separate an insane woman from the one thing that keeps her calm.
Sorry getting high is the only thing I have to look forward to in life. Whose
fault is that? At some point, I suppose it was Brian’s fault. But ultimately, my
dear dead-end society, I would have to blame you.
I promised this girl I would make this okay. How do you go about making a
double-axe-murder-gun-suicide okay for the girl that witnessed two thirds of
it? Well, I’m not too sure because I’ve never dealt with one and neither has
anyone else I’ve encountered. But I took it upon myself the day after this
happened to do whatever it took to make it okay. It was my only mission in
life to see this girl smile again. And now, I have to look her in the eyes,
immobilized on the back step and completely traumatized by the damage
her ex-boyfriend has done. You couldn't imagine the feeling of happiness I
have to have this beautiful warrior in front of me. I want to cry, but I won't. I
will later and never stop. Right now, I am the only person that would look her
in the face and not shed a tear. Believe me, I want to, but I can't. In a time of
the most haunting sorrow, you do not need grief. We are all grieving, but no
one is hurting like she is. I cannot give her my grief. I am overjoyed that she
is breathing; I want to be her relief. But what do I say? I know what she
doesn't need, but what does she need?
Hope.
When everything you know is changed in a moment, all you can do is hope
for the best. Hope was all I had to offer. We have to hope that the rest will be
worth being alive for no matter how badly we want to die. But now what?
"[My desire]... Everything happens for a reason."
"Let's hope."
At this point in time, all we were concerned about was making to the funerals
that were to be held Monday and Tuesday. The week wasn’t too bad.
Thursday brought us nothing but our own grief. By Friday, we had to do
something. There was an event going on at my best friend’s Detroit
University. It was an Indian celebration we knew nothing about, but saw a
video of the actual event of the holiday in India. This video included crowds
of people enjoying live music and throwing colour at one another.
Colour.
We borrowed a wheelchair from my desire’s grandpa and the five of us
headed for Detroit. We found a small group of people in a small field
surrounded by city buildings. We approached cautiously; for we did not want
to intrude somewhere we may not have been welcome. It didn’t take long for
someone to notice the awkward gaggle of young white kids with a
wheelchair. They smiled upon our faces and welcomed us into their
celebration. Colour (powdered pigments of colour) was spread across our
faces by the hands of friendly strangers. There was a large speaker playing
what sounded like a combination of new-wave electronic and Indian
traditional music. Everyone was running around, dancing and sharing their
colour. It was hard for any of us to hide the wide smiles these people had put
on our lips.
And fuck yeah, we went to Hash Bash the next day. The girl who everyone in
Suburbia recognized from the news needed to feel like a stranger lost in the
crowd. Part of me thought that would never happen. We find someone we
know everywhere we go and I think it must have been really nice for some of
her old stoner friends to get to see her after this shit because we were all
devastated for her, you know? Shit, let’s get high. I wanna get high just
thinking about it.
I kept busy that weekend doing paintings of two of the deceased among the
various activities we found ourselves in. We’d have okay days and long,
sorrowful nights. We did our best to laugh and stay calm. American Beauty
seemed to be the only way to describe the way we felt and every word we
thought. It became our world. We were surrounded by family for these days,
drowning in food and love. It was nice. It felt good to be comforted in this
way. It was kind of fun to live like that in the moments you could forget why
we were doing it. But it was inevitably going to end.
I kept it together to the best of my ability for the days leading up to the final
good-byes. Life was incredibly surreal, to say the least. There was a moment
nothing felt real. My aunt’s sister was coming down the stairs and I can’t
remember what she said but it sounded so much like my aunt I believed it
was her. I thought she was walking down those stairs and I honestly
expected to see her turn the corner and face me, it sounded so much like
her. I thought for this brief moment of impossible false hope that somehow,
Psycho didn’t actually kill her. I looked at her sister and felt the world shatter
again. It is something I am used to now. I know her voice, I know I will never
hear hers again. I walk barefoot over the broken glass of my shattering
worlds.
Monday finally came. I put on my funeral dress and we did the damn thing. I
gave his brothers a painting with lyrics to the Trapeze Swinger written in the
background. I didn’t know Hero was the Tallest Tower until I was there.
Those boys moved me; spinning young images of too young a casket. I held
it together for Hero’s funeral because I was very sad that he was gone, but I
didn’t know him. I didn’t feel right about crying in front of all of his loved
ones. It was really sad, though. I felt so terrible about what happened to him
and it was hard to look them in the face, in a way, because Psycho was a
friend of mine. So many dirty looks it hurt. American Beauty there and back;
there’s a reason Brokedown Palace is tattooed on her thigh.
You know, I call him Hero because he really died a Hero. The way I see it,
Psycho was going to kill someone that night. If Hero hadn’t been there, I
think my desire would be dead. And maybe my aunt would be alive, but my
desire would be dead. I think that. Maybe I shouldn’t think that. Maybe it
comes easier to think that because he wasn’t my friend. My heart goes an
infinite distance to everyone he loved. And to him; it would have to be
infinity to get to him. Even if I hate hearing it, I’m so terribly sorry I feel this
need to feel so sorry about the innocent victim in a selfish passion crime. It
wasn’t fair, but that’s life. And honestly, I think he understood that more
than most people—from what I’ve been told and what I’ve since learned. I’m
so sorry it had to be him, but I couldn’t tell you how happy I am that this girl
is alive. I think it would be an injustice to his Death to say that it was ‘her
fault’. He saved her life. If anything, he died for her and for that, he is my
Hero. I imagine he was a Hero to many in his life, but this is how he became
mine. I think I would rather die a Hero than a coward.
Plus, he’s a total momma’s boy. Don’t you believe in anything?
Tuesday was even harder. It was kind of hilarious to comfort other people for
five hours. I bawled my eyes out like a little bitch during the service.
Everyone did. It was haunting beauty if I ever saw it. It would have been
absolutely impossible to do this without everyone we know. I can’t stress
that enough. If it weren’t for people, there would have been more funerals.
Psycho’s was held at the time as my aunt’s was. None of us wanted to go,
anyway. There were some pissed off bikers that wanted to piss on the
fucker’s casket, so it was probably better we didn’t go because bikers are
our friends and family \m/
I don’t know, it was a long day and it was a long time ago. I don’t think about
her as much as the others because she really did everything she needed to
do on this Earth and then some. She proved herself the Harley Queen. She
kicked ass, took names, and regardless of every sin she ever committed, her
heart was Heavenly. That’s all I give a damn about. But if we’re all damned
either way, then we’ll all be together by the fireside. She loved Criminal
Minds and she was part of a real-life episode, in a morbidly comforting way…
I’ll smoke to that. Shit. You would, too, if it was you.
So what do you want to hear? The truth? Isn’t that the whole point of this?
The truth is, it fucks you up. We’re all fucked up. It’s a hard subject to avoid
when it affects every single part of your life but it’s hard to talk about what
nobody wants to hear. It scares the life out of people and I think it scares
them more when we talk about it. It was hard to live, to be honest. I’m being
honest. It was hard to live and I didn’t even see it fucking happen. We made
a Thelma and Louise pact, just in case we couldn’t do it anymore. Life wasn’t
any worse. In some ways, it was cool. She was done with high school and
basically allowed to do whatever she wanted, which is what she wanted.
She’d take her mother for high school any day, but life is not an option
without a bright side. We smoked weed in her sun room and listened to
American Beauty on repeat.
I picked up the habit of writing rap verses to channel my anger into
something of potential use. I liked the idea of becoming the future of hip hop.
O.G. Future Skool uh suhin’! Ha. I lived for wild dreams. Clearly, I still do.
Ain’t much else to live for these days. Especially because I went back to
Tini’s only to be fired by her son a month later.
Thanks, Asshole. You don’t like that I’m five minutes late every day? I don’t
like the way you treat the women in your life. Why don’t you try to love
something more than yourself and maybe Everything around you wouldn’t
be so damn miserable?
That goes for all you assholes and not just the ones I’m fingering.
LOLWUT?I found myself in full Jill once again but this time, I refused to be stuck at the
host stand. After a month, I had crazy written all over my face standing in
one spot like that. After a month, I was a waitress. And I’ll tell ya, I was the
best one there. I was just a shitty Jill because…
Working for corporate
America sucks.
Sucking the Man’s dick in hopes it will pay off—I’m not about that life. I’ve
never given such a bad blow job as I have to Jack & Jill’s.
After learning all I needed to know at West and nit-picked apart to be built
back together by Tini and Asshole, I have become the best damn waitress.
However, being a good waitress does not make you a good Jill. I was the
biggest, baddest Jill because I don’t sell any “Big Bad Jills” because I don’t
agree with the business practice of shamelessly promoting the self inside the
self. To explain:
As a Jill, there are rules you must follow. You are given a small card of what
to do every time you get a table. You must greet them within thirty seconds;
they must have their drinks within two minutes, etc. It doesn’t take a genius
to wait tables. I’ll be the first to tell you that.
Being a waitress doesn’t make you a
dumb bitch, but being a dumb bitch might make you a waitress.
Why does someone whose job it is to wait tables need a pamphlet on how to
properly go about doing it? Why are you handing out “vision cards”? Maybe
you shouldn’t hire people who can’t figure out how to serve instead of
wasting your time and money, and our resources, on bullshit cards that are
meant to teach us something we should already know. Not only is their
business run by a clock, but as an Jill, you are expected to sell, sell, and up
sell the fuck out of every meal you lay on the table.
When a person goes out to eat, I think they intend on deciding what they
eat. When a person is being severed, I think they expect to be served their
own demands. When a waitress pushes products on them, I think it more
often than not results in a smaller tip.
So, to recap:
Waitresses get paid less hourly wage, but are tipped in compensation
The hourly wage is taxed the same as standard minimum wage, but so
are the compensating tips
In order to keep this low-paying job in a multi-million-dollar company,
you must follow the rules
The rules are created to make the Man more money, but in turn loses
the lowest-paying employees some of what little pay they have
And I am expected to give a fuck?
I understand that I am stuck at a dead-end job because I am not in college—
and on the opposite end of the spectrum, there are those stuck at dead-end
jobs until they are done with college. I am told that I am stuck at this dead-
end job because I choose to be. I suppose, in a right, this is true. I don’t have
to be a waitress. I could go to college and get a “real job” and then I really
wouldn’t have to be a waitress. Well, I’m sorry. After a year of college, I
couldn’t see the point to going anymore. Is it my fault that I don’t agree with
the way things are done around here? Sure. You can give me that. But don’t
think that I will submit because I am told to, especially if you can’t give me a
reason I can’t find a loophole in.
I was trying not to speak to him but here we were once more as co-workers.
In a way, I was happy to be back at Jack & Jill’s for that reason. Even though
he sort of wanted nothing to do with me, I wanted him to be forced to see
my face. I’m a masochist and I sorely believe he’s a sadist. There were other
girls and I knew it but I didn’t care. It sort of reminded me too much of my
desire’s life. It was kind of funny in a way that was so funny it hurt.
I suppose after seeing the total darkness of rock bottom, I wanted to take
something good out of all the bad things I had just witnessed. I wanted to
believe in something that wasn’t real because I wanted something to believe
in at a time I wanted to die instead of deal with what had just happened. I’m
sorry. I don’t really feel that way now, but I wasn’t given much time to
recover. Which is fine, I didn’t need it. But goddamn, some patience would
be cool.
Only two weeks later was my twentieth birthday. I found myself an
unemployed college drop out that did nothing but smoke weed and cry. I
made so many promises to myself and so many people that I did not keep. I
had nothing to show of my life but the sorrow of others. Happy fucking
birthday, you’re a piece of shit. And then some girl wanted to complain about
the day she was having. Bitch, please. It’s not that I don’t love you, but
sometimes, I can’t even pretend like I care.
My girlfriend called me two days later and asked me to accompany her to
New Jersey to pick up an old friend that was going to be stranded there if she
didn’t go. We left two hours later and chain smoked cigarettes for thirteen
hours straight, arrived at some 4-million-dollar home he was staying at, and
took a long-awaited nap in the biggest bed I’ve ever slept in. We woke up
and spent six hours in New Jersey and chain-smoked thirteen hours back.
He merged right into our lives. He stayed with my girlfriend for a while but
then was slowly kicked out. He started staying at my cat’s house, but two
boys couldn’t share a room full of people. A month after we brought him
from Jersey, he was on his way back to Georgia. I know nothing in life is
permanent, but damn.
Even worse than my birthday was my best friend’s birthday a month later. I
actually got her a decent birthday present of clothes she wears all the time
and not even thrift store clothes. And my present? A phone call from Tyler
informing me he had Chlamydia! Woo hoo! I assumed I gave it to him,
though he tried to make himself look as equally guilty. If I gave it to him, I
knew who gave it to me. It was later confirmed when Tyler’s ex-girlfriend got
Chlamydia after sleeping with that guy.
But seriously, LOL
fuck my life LY!!!
I should learn to just stay in the car.
Later that night, I was drunk and hanging out with my former soul mate,
current douche bag. Shit once again got weird. And once again, I hadn’t
really wanted it to, but it seems like you can convince me of anything when
I’m drunk. To be fair, I tried to sleep off my alcohol so I could drive to Tyler’s
to wake up and go to the clinic together to be treated in the morning.
Instead, I was told I didn’t need to sleep and had nowhere to be with a hand
up my dress.
Needless to finish, weirdness. I stared in my cat’s face and laughed, but I
may have given a douche bag an STD. I told him to wear a condom and tried
more than once to push him off me. If he did get it, I can’t say I’d feel all that
bad.
Tyler and I continued to sway back and forth over stormy waters. We tried to
be friends, we tried to ignore one another; we tried to hate each other.
Nothing we tried worked because we never tried love. Well, he didn’t. I loved
him through everything. But he never loved me back. No matter how much it
seemed like he did, he didn’t. No matter how much he Burned, I was wrong.
He never loved me and he never will but I could not help myself. When
everything in life is bitter, hope is all to taste so sweet. He gave me hope in
something when I had no hope in anything. Regardless of how much I love
him, I truly despise him. As a hopeless romantic, I don’t think I can ever
forgive him of robbing me of love at first sight. Sometimes, I think he hurt
worse than Psycho because he’s still alive.
I still don’t go a day without thinking about what happened in April. It seems
like it has touched every aspect of my life, in a way. It’s hard to think about
everything when it all reminds you of the worst thing. I think the worst
reminder is cops, especially in Suburbia. Good thing I have to continuously
interact with people who completely botched the only murder scene they’ve
ever seen that just so happened to contain my loved ones.
When you have a lot of shit, you lose a lot of shit. It’s not because I’m a
fucking pot head, it’s because I’m a fucking hoarder. Well, as it turns out, my
license was part of “Shit I’ve Lost.”
I got pulled over for getting in the left-hand turn lane too early because
traffic was backed up due to construction, and I didn’t want some asshole to
fly up behind me while trying to go from one lane to the other in moving
traffic. The cop followed me into the turn lane and pulled me over in my own
neighborhood.
Cool, bro. I’m really glad you were here to catch me going fifteen miles an
hour down the middle lane. Can you tell me what kind of wound this is?
Gunshot or axe?
I imagine it’s pretty hard to tell the difference but I figure you must know
because you’re trained to use a gun so you probably know what the wound
of one of your bullets will look like.
Oh. You don’t?
And you want to write me a ticket because I don’t have my card of
information that is already in your computer?
Hey, maybe I want to write you a ticket for not releasing information to
family at the scene of the crime before releasing false information to the
media.
But shit, you’re right. I shouldn’t have gotten in that lane so soon.
He wrote me a ticket for not wearing my seatbelt, which I was doing, but
wrote on the ticket that I didn’t have my license. I thought I had thirty days
to pay the ticket but I really had twenty. Here comes my warrant twenty-one
days later.
Meanwhile, I broke my spleen. Yeah, I know what you’re thinking. One of the
veins attached to my spleen broke or something. I was leaking, still kind of
leaky. I am actually very lucky it didn’t rupture and kill me by drowning me in
my own blood. I was on top of a hill with someone I don’t really know and I
hadn’t smoked any weed and I was upset about Everything and I couldn’t
paint anymore and I didn’t know how to explain the way I felt to a stranger
so I ran out of the gazebo and down the hill I stood atop of. I was probably
three-quarters down when the terrain beneath my feet changed and I was
suddenly airborne. I didn’t have much time to think. It was like, hey, I’m
about to fall. I’m falling. Don’t want to belly flop. Gonna tuck, tumble, and
hope for the best.
Hitting the ground felt so good. Maybe that sounds really sick to you, but
feeling anything feels better than being numb. It felt so good to hurt
physically for that moment Nature smacked me around. I don’t know why.
Maybe I’m fucked in the head. I was scrapped and scarred but I walked up
that hill with no major injuries that I could see. I felt adrenaline rattling my
core. There was nothing but a smile on my face.
Two weeks later, I was heading to Tyler’s when my stomach began to ache. I
didn’t think much of it until it became immobilizing. When I was in his box, I
couldn’t sit or lay or be any sort of comfortable. I felt like I had an ulcer. I ran
into a wall and completely face planted it and lay on the floor laughing
maliciously about how the pain in my stomach subsided to the tingling in my
face.
Shit was fucked. I lived with my mild stomach pain.
I got to take acid and see Roger Waters perform the Wall. Again! But I wasn’t
on acid the first time. I was in pain and my friends left for Bonnaroo for the
weekend. This was when I realized I had to break up with my depressing
girlfriend. I was trying to stay positive under all my negativity, but she simply
reminded me of every reason I had to be negative. I didn’t want it.
And only a year after we had been glued at the hip I was finally dealing with
the shit that consumed my car, I found a card of some of the dearest words
ever written for me that now meant absolutely nothing:
Lauren
There are few people in this world that mean more to me than you
do. When I need someone, I know you are there. Know that this is not
something that I take for granted. I would hate for that to change. You are
my person. You have the most Beautiful soul that I have ever had the
pleasure of knowing, and better yet, the honor of calling you my best
friend. My other half, my Penny Lane, my solid piece that just so happens
to be cracked around the edges. I love you, flaws and all, and I just wanted
to be sure you knew that. We may not have it all together, but together we
have it all. I’m lost without you, I can only hope you never forget that. But if
you do, I’m just in the other room, waiting for you to want to be reminded.
And with luck, a joint ready. Love you so much. Never forget.
<3 always
[My ex-wife]
Awesome.
I went to the courthouse to stand in front of a magistrate. I brought money to
pay the ticket and warrant so I could get my license replaced because I
didn’t think I could do that with a warrant on my name. I was told to come
back and stand in court with my license on my brother’s birthday. I went
over to the secretary of state with all my papers from the courthouse,
terrified but ready to have to explain my life and beg to allow them to take
my picture. Instead, they asked me no questions. I filled in the blanks, paid
nine dollars, and smiled for the camera.
I finally went to a doctor and he ordered an ultrasound. The ultrasound said
there was blood. It was coming from my spleen. I went to the hospital. Tyler
came with me. I thought he would do this kind of thing for me to show me
that he loved me when he refused to say it until I saw him texting some bitch
as we waited together to find out how dead inside I was. I died more. I have
two broken organs. I’d say it’s about half.
They wanted to give me an angiogram immediately. I wanted to go to the
Mad Scientist’s wedding, but they said this angiogram was vital and
absolutely couldn’t wait any longer. The idea was to give me a small incision
in the groin to go up and stick a cork in the crack of my spleen. They told me
if they didn’t do this, I might die from any sort of strain, pressure, or trauma
to my side. If I didn’t get this angiogram done the next day, I would be
risking my life with my every move.
So I missed this wedding for this angiogram and the shit didn’t even work.
Cool. Tell me I’m in a life or death situation and then fail. Tell me to “take it
easy” for six weeks after telling me I could die at any moment for any
reason. Scare me half to death.
But I’m still alive!
I did get pretty crazy being locked up in my room that weekend. Can you
blame me? The way they made it sound, I was sitting and waiting to die.
What the fuck kind of life is that? Not one I was willing to live, so I was pretty
close to killing myself. And the one person I wanted to see refused to talk to
me. Shocking. I’m sorry I was freaking out, but I was given a death sentence.
It would have been nice if someone would have told me I’d be okay when I
legitimately thought I was going to die because I was legitimately told I was
going to die. I’m sorry they scared me and I scared you. There are just those
times when life gets out of hand that I need someone’s hand to hold and I
have never felt so fearless in someone’s hand like I do in yours.
So maybe if all you wanted was your hands on some
bitch, you shouldn’t have ever held mine. Ever.
I returned to the courthouse when my license came to pay my dues. I was
leaving the state that weekend. I wasn’t about to have a warrant out for my
arrest and risk not making it to All Good. I was told the cost of everything
went up and I actually owed them even more money. No one asked to see
my license, even though that was why I couldn’t pay it the first time. I paid
for the warrant. I went back after All Good to pay the ticket. The price went
up yet again. Not like I pay taxes with the money I work to earn or anything.
Here, take a little extra for the trouble you’ve caused me!
I went back to the hospital the week of All Good for a check-in. It was getting
better, but wasn’t completely gone. I was told to take it easy for another six
weeks.
Well, I’ll try. But I can’t promise anything of my best festival behavior.
Of course, that week, the holiest woman I know was on her death bed. I said
my good-byes with family around. It was all very nice and peaceful. I was
happy for her. I can’t imagine she wanted much more in life.
We went and saw Furthur the night before we left for All Good because we
never had the opportunity to follow the Grateful Dead, so we did what we
could.
The holiest woman died on my way to Ohio. My dad expected me to come
back a day early to go to her funeral. Not to sound like a heartless bitch, but
I said good-bye. We knew she was going to die. I’d been to enough funerals.
I’m sorry. I really would have gone if it hadn’t been the only weekend I had
time to have fun and be happy for a change after all the fucking Hell I’ve
lived.
ALL GOOD: THE MOST FUN A DISAPPOINTMENT HAS EVER BEEN
I clawed my brother’s face as I told him about the Flaming Lips being at All Good. I
was going to see the Allman Brothers Band, all the living members of the Dead
playing on their own, Dark Star Orchestra, Michael Franti, Greensky Bluegrass, the
Macpodz, like, that line-up was the closest thing to perfect that I was gonna get.
And, oh my god, the Flaming Lips! I was so excited to see them after the last time I
saw them, my unbreakable appreciation of Yoshimi development, Wayne following
me on Twitter, and the dream I had.
He fucking disappointed me, to say the least.
I had a great time at All Good. It was the best festival I could have gone to that
year. Sure, I would have tweaked a few things, but nothing is absolutely perfect,
especially not anything created by humans! It was good time. But man. I was really
hoping for that Coyne-fuel Flaming energy I had felt before but it wasn’t there. I was
at the brink of giving up hope and for so many months I told myself,
“Just have to make it to All Good.”
Then I made it only to see that I am not the only one giving up hope. I met some
really amazing people that weekend. I heard some amazing fucking jams that
weekend. Every moment I cherish in my heart. But Damn, Wayne. Where were you?
Among the circus of beautiful magic, where were you? Down in the dumps
somewhere? Because I was coming to you to get out of the dumps. You even said
you were waiting for a sign to say “It’s All Good” and thanks to my ex-girlfriend, I
was up front with a sign saying “IT’S ALL GOOD”! What more can I do?
Rather, what more can be done?
My purse was taken from the campsite Monday between the hours of five and ten
a.m. Can’t win ‘em all; but I had some seriously sad losses. I lost my chillum the
Pink Robot (probably a good sign), my new Dead pins from that weekend, my flower
pen, key chains galore… Mostly shit I shouldn’t have even had anymore, to be
honest. But, man. My fucking little orange rap journal was in there.
I returned from All Good in a bittersweet mood. I was happy to have
experienced it, but I felt like giving up again. I no longer had something to
look forward to.
BUT OH, WAIT. I DID. AND IT WAS PETER FUCKING
GABRIEL!!!
In the months waiting for Peter Gabriel, shit got continuously fucked up. My
cat was breaking my desire’s fragile heart over a couple of pixies. A Con
Artist appeared as though from thin air, in need of more pixies. It seemed
like what we had built after the destruction was destructing. This led to some
mild self-destruction with tragedy among us. The city in which the Gates of
Hell were opened is on its fast-happening decline to its eventual decay. You
are not safe from human evils anywhere. Now, the city that avoided
everything has seen it all.
Two boys that ventured into the city of Detroit to buy drugs are dead. They
were found on the far east side, naked in a field. They are friends of one my
brothers and now they are friends of mine. They were shot in the back of
their heads on their knees—execution style. They died scared. It seems to
me a storm of civil war could be brewing. White Suburbia v. Black City with
the added ignorant chaos of Red in between. The people of Suburbia are
pissed the fuck off. They are furious at Detroit as a community and black
people in general because two of their children ended up dead there. But
who is at fault, here? The mentality that dominates Suburbia is that of an
innocent one, even when they are not so innocent. Bless these boys and may
they rest in peace, but why were they in Detroit buying drugs in the first
place? How are you going to be mad at someone else for their whereabouts?
I don’t think there is ever a scenario in which one should kill another human
being, especially when they have not committed an act of violence against
you. But these boys probably shouldn’t have been where they were. I think
they know that now.
It seems like Death is the one thing that can make you appreciate Life. Or so
I’ve seen. It’s too bad you have to shake the fucker’s hand in order to feel his
presence…
I’ve known Death for a while. We’re practically neighbors.
Life as I knew it was once again slipping. My desire cannot be tamed. My love
runs absolutely wild. I’m running madly Wilde. There is no point in trying
anymore. The Con Artist conned me or conned you but either way, why trust
a Con Artist?
A lot of people tend to be able to stand me for about six months. This rule
typically applies to ‘my girlfriends’ and most of the dudes I befriend are lost
within the first year due to said bitches. My girlfriends tend to be cute girls
with low self-esteem because I find girls who don’t find themselves overly
attractive more attractive than girls that do.
Six month therapy sessions. That’s all I ever seem to be to girls. Even the
girls I think will be an exception. Six months, and my life changes again.
Always finding myself at a loss of people, feeling, words… Everything seems
to fly back into space every six months.
I really expected you to be different.
I got to see Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeroes the day before Gabriel.
It was pretty cool. I totally fell in love with Jade. I saw my ex-wife there. She
told me she wrote me a letter and seemed pretty desperate about me. It was
like, I didn’t give a shit (and what less of anything can you give but a shit?)
about seeing her or speaking to her, especially after she had previously
given me the cold shoulder. Even after telling her I’d read it and reminding
her to give it to me, she still hasn’t given me this letter. Makes me give even
less of a fuck about her. Now, I really don’t mind being around her, I could
just never be her friend again. But I feel that way about almost every bitch
I’ve ever known.
It was there that I saw a boy across a table; sunglasses at night with a sketch
pad. LOL hey LY!
I felt pretty sore in awe of Peter Gabriel. It was the most gorgeous display of
music I’ve ever witnessed. It was perfect in every way imaginable. I’m glad I
got to experience it with my best friends. But because I got my tattoo, it
seemed to be the last thing on my bucket list. I felt so totally fucked again. It
seemed all I had to really live for was the dead. And the Dead. And the hope
in dreams spun from insanity.
Things so crazy, they might work?
Things so insane, they could be true?
GHOST STORIES
My whole life, I wished I’d believed in ghosts. I saw evidence on television but I
never had any for myself. Death made me sad so I wanted to believe in ghosts but I
could never bring myself to do it. I guess all my dead was at peace at the end and it
wasn’t until there was some disturbance in death that I acquired my ghosts. Now,
you couldn’t convince me otherwise; I am happily haunted.
THE HARLEY QUEEN This was the first ghost I encountered. After the disaster, it
was very hard to sleep. It was even harder to dream. The first time I dreamt since it
happened was the week of and all I remember about it was my aunt. I think we
were in her kitchen. I saw her smiling and I called out for her. She just laughed a
silent laugh. She wouldn’t show me her teeth, but she was smiling the whole time.
She was walking away from me and I was still calling for her. I think I was crying.
She continued to smile and she waved and then she was gone. I woke up realizing
the worst part of someone dying is that you can’t ever hear their voice again. I
haven’t seen her since.
MARLBORO BOYS I called out to these boys after finding out what had happened.
It didn’t take one long to find me. Few of us were outside of a pixie’s apartment. We
were waiting for her to let us in, when a toad hopped out of nowhere. To be honest,
I’ve never seen a wild toad this big or yellow in my life. The kid tried to pick it up
but it hopped from him. He finally grabbed it and as he stood upright, the toad
jumped into my desire’s hands immediately. After ten seconds of being in her
hands, he jumped to mine. As he sat in my palm, we stared each other in the eyes.
I’ve never seen a toad look scared. Part of me wishes I would have held on, but I
was afraid it was going to pee on me, so I tossed it away. I knew it was one of those
boys and I knew he was scared and I think he was kind of mad about what
happened.
Weeks after that happened, the other boy gave me a lighter and saved my life. I
always kept a lighter in Big Bad Jill’s apron. You never know when you’ll have to
light a candle or take a smoke break. I always had a lighter. It was a red Bic then.
Somehow, some when, it was let loose of my apron’s middle pocket and into the
object-eating abyss of my car. I had my desire bring me cigarettes and she let me
borrow her lighter for the day. I gave it back to her that night. We decided to go
look at the houses we dreamed of owning as we did so many nights, but something
was urging me not to go. I had never felt uncomfortable doing this. We did it all the
time. But for some reason, I was incredibly uneasy.
“Maybe we shouldn’t go.”
“Okay, why?”
“I don’t know… It’s 1:30 in the morning.”
“So? We’ve done this at two in the morning.”
“Yeah, you’re right.”
I didn’t want to feel the way I did so I was going to let it happen. But for some
reason, I couldn’t. We were about to pass over Tele. I got the most overwhelming
feeling throughout my entire body. The feeling consumed me whole, from inside to
outside. Tears welled in my eyes and I blurted out:
“Turn. Go North. I can’t go East right now. I just can’t. I can go West but I can’t go
East.”
I think he saved us that night. The next day I still didn’t have a lighter in my apron. I
borrowed one when I took my smoke breaks at work. Later that night, my desire
was coming to pick me up. When she arrived, I reached for my cigarettes and one-
hitter and out fell a black Bic. I stared in amazement and ran to her car completely
crazed. I was in that pocket all night long, grabbing change and cigarettes. There is
no way I would have missed a lighter in the course of two days. After having some
time to think about it, I decided to text the brother and ask him about the boys the
next night.
“Did either of them have a preferred colour Bic?”
“Not really. If it worked, they used it, you know?”
“Yeah. Do you know what their favourite colours were?”
“I think [his] was red and [his] was green. May I ask why you are asking me this?”
“Of course. I think one of them gave me a black Bic.”
“Oh, [he] used to black out everything.”
“Really?! What do you mean?”
“He coloured everything black. He painted his car black, he even blacked out his
subs.”
“That makes a lot of sense. Now I’m sure it was [him].”
“That’s so cool. Let them know I love them and that they are missed.”
“They know. I think [he] is still angry, but he’ll come around. I promise.”
My best friend asked me to buy her a pack of cigarettes on my way to a bonfire, so I
decided to buy some for myself. I didn’t feel like buying Pall Malls, but I didn’t know
what I wanted. After bullshitting with the dude in the gas station for five minutes
and rambling off every cigarette I’ve ever smoked, this pack of Marlboro Black
Menthol Hundreds caught my eye. I had never been crazy about the idea of Black
cigarettes, but for some reason, I bought them for the first time ever. I went to the
bonfire and hung out with some bakery kids, and I left for Tree City. I arrived to a
pow-wow in the living room as always. I had my cigarettes on the table, Black
menthols with a red Bic. I looked at it and smiled because as I talked about my
conversation with the brother, I realized I had their three colours: Black, green, and
red. We went into the bedroom to smoke a baseball bat. I took my jacket off and
noticed two black dots on my arms. They looked like Sharpie, but I didn’t have a
black Sharpie. I didn’t have sleeves covering my arms all day, either. These were
born when my arms were covered. I immediately began to cry.
“Well. I guess [he’s] not mad anymore.”
THE STAR A girl I used to rave with back in the days, who killed herself. It nearly
broke my heart. I was never close to her because she never talked much. I thought
she was an e-tard. I felt so guilty for not noticing maybe she just needed some
friends. The news of a girl whose life I could have potentially helped but let slip
through my fingers was a sad feeling. So I called out to her, because some of my
friends are dead. About a week after I called out to her, I found one of the bracelets
she gave me with beads that spelled her name. The night I put it on, I found marks
all over my hand and another Sharpie-like dot on my left hand—the same one as
the bracelet. It’s funny, because she worked where I currently work, so I work with
someone who was friends with her. I told him my ghost stories and a little bit about
my haunting life. I wanted to show him the picture of my hand, but I realized it was
on my desire’s phone and not mine. I ended up calling her after work and she later
sent me the picture. That night, I let Panda borrow my knife. He noticed it had a
bejewel in it. I didn’t know there was a bejewel in it. I am more convinced this was
the Star over probability. A week later, I told my co-worker about it and showed him
the picture of my hand. When I came into work the next morning, I was told the
water was left running all night. I don’t care what anyone says, there’s no way four
people didn’t notice a sink being on. When I got off work, I told the story to my
dearest friends in my best friend’s garage. When I had left and gone back to ma
man’s, she asked me what my Star looked like.
“Yeah. She was definitely in [my best friend’s] garage tonight. I saw her.”
HERO He continuously talks to me through my radio. White noise doesn’t say much,
but he tells me a whole lot. I’ve learned life is about timing and he has the best
timing. And he’s always telling me to try. There was a night my desire and I sat on a
porch we already felt was slightly haunted. I was complaining about a boy I loved
like she loved Hero when he was alive and I was getting the heaviest boots because
I just didn’t know what to do about it anymore, and all I really wanted to know was if
Hero really loved her, you know? I wanted to know he died for love and not just bad
timing. We sat in silence for a moment and in that moment, I felt everything. It
started as a warm, tingling sensation in my ear, at first. It got warmer and the
sensation crept down my neck and into my chest. My eyes immediately swelled up
with tears, but I was not upset. I wasn’t scared. I wasn’t fucked up. I was everything.
There is no other way to describe that feeling but everything, all at once. It was the
most incredible thing I have ever felt. My desire and I made eye contact and she
immediately swelled with tears. We sort of laughed wildly.
“I don’t know why we’re crying right now but we’re crying right now and I don’t
know, what’s wrong? What’s going on?”
“Um, I don’t… I don’t. I don’t really know. But… I don’t know, but I think… I don’t
know, feels like a ghost. I don’t know.”
I sat and tried to relax my body. I closed my eyes. I leaned back. I didn’t go
anywhere, but I felt like I was floating. Perhaps the blood beneath my skin was
bubbling, or my bones were taking flight. My body felt light or full of light or like my
insides were floating. I looked at my desire again and I had the strongest urge to
reach out and tackle her in my arms. I resisted the urge because I didn’t think it was
my urge and I refused his desire for her. The feeling within me continued when we
went back inside, and I gently floated down. I may have not known his life, but I feel
as though I’m getting to know him in death, as so many of them.
And most recently, when I was sick, I saw him. Not only did I see him, but I felt him.
You know, it has crossed my mind that ghosts could possibly be a part of the
human subconscious. Even more likely, part of our unconscious mind. My
thing is, I rarely see ghosts. And I hardly ever hear ghosts. I feel them. The
one conclusion I have come up with in life is that we cannot know anything
but what we feel. When life is completely personal—because our reality is
the way we perceive it—the only thing we can be certain of is what we feel.
When literally Everything in life can be questioned, the only thing we cannot
doubt is how we feel. We are our existence. Without us, we don’t exist.
Anything outside of us is beyond our control. Therefore, what we feel is truly
the only concrete evidence to reality that we have. There is not much of a
way for an outside force to interfere with what you can feel. But maybe my
unconscious mind was trying to scare me of Death.
I was sleeping in intervals that day and night. It must have been around two a.m.
when I opened my eyes and looked out my window at the moon. I did this two more
times. Sometime when the sun came up, I stared it directly in the face and fell back
asleep. I dreamt I was exactly as I was in reality, but I was holding someone’s hand.
I didn’t know who it was at first, but it made me smile because I had been alone and
sick for a couple days. I assumed it was Tyler because it was my dreams. Something
told me it wasn’t. I turned from my window and lay on my back to try and figure out
what was going on. I felt a hand in my hand. I looked at my hand and there was a
hand there. I felt it. It felt so real, I opened my eyes. I was half expecting to find a
hand there, but obviously there wasn’t anyone in bed with me. I immediately went
back to dreaming a hand in mine. I squeezed it a few times and it squeezed back. I
ran my free hand across an arm dressed in blue to find a head of blond. I ran my
hand over the face and realized who it was. My hand wiped away the blue sleeves
to leave him in a red tee shirt. I began to say his name, but I was shushed. Then I
woke up.
Maybe it’s all unreal, but it’s hard to argue with feeling. There are all those
little things like waking up with a burn or getting tear-eyed or feeling
something in the air—something else there. Seeing things in my dreams
seems to me to be more evidence for my case. In addition to my personal
hauntings, I was called upon by my brother and his theater friends at three
a.m. to explore other hauntings just around the corner. It is a “case”, you
could say, still in progress.
It’s interesting to me because we can never know anything surely about
reality but the fact that we will surely die. Sorry, I find death as interesting as
I find life. I’m not saying I want to die, but I am quite curious about that side.
And I don’t see how like everything else, they wouldn’t co-exist.
Right?
“Mama, mama, many worlds I’ve come since I first left home”
FEARLESS FREAKS, SHAMELESS GEEKS, & PRACTICAL WOMEN
“All you’ll see is a self-reflected inner sadness”
Would you even believe in my lack of self-esteem after I’ve written this
damned thing? I had faked confidence long enough to actually find some of
the real shit, but after my long list of failures to come with said confidence,
I’ve completely lost it.
LOL I’ve completely lost it! LY
After years of social experiments and third-party observation, I’ve come up
with what I find to be somewhat useful but slightly inconclusive data up for
interpretation and up for discussion:
It seems to me life is on repeat… DUH.
They tell you in History class that history repeats itself. I always believed it,
but I only ever thought of in the context of a history book. It wasn’t until my
years post-History I came to realize it is applicable for short-term history, i.e.
a lifespan, and long-term history, i.e. existence. I began to notice, especially
after that last chapter, my life would drastically change but not actually
change much. It started to freak me out. I mean, I felt like I had psychic
powers because I got so fucking good at calling it as I saw it and I always
fucking saw it because I catch on quickly.
It’s a cycle. Sure, Disney sings about “the Circle of Life” but really, it’s a sick
cyclical turn into a self-constructed oblivion of endless chaos.
It’s disgusting.
I was finding myself knowing the same girl over and over again. They just
had different names and body types; different hairstyles and cup sizes. All
the things that don’t matter to me were the only things that would ever be
different about these girls. The things that were always the same were the
things that do matter to me and all the most defected parts: their hearts. It’s
too bad they are always too hung up about what looks wrong with them to
realize it isn’t the way you smell that attracts people. It’s the way you vibe.
Unless, of course, all someone wants is your vagina. In that case, you best be
doin’ Keigels, girl. It ain’t gonna be tight forever when you use it like that.
Oh, like I have room to talk. Calm down, slut. I’m the
whore.
It would seem the same would happen of dudes, too. In the end, it seems
none of them care about the ideas behind my hippie skirts. They just want
the tight, wise cunt underneath.
I can’t say I totally blame people for being this way. We were sort of created
in the most unnatural fashion. We were raised by the media because we are
the babies of the Technological Revolution.
See, okay. You hate us. Our parents and the “certain age” crowd is pissed off
for the way we talk, the way we dress, the way we act, the things we like,
the things we do—the way we live—even though they raised us. Now, I’m not
saying you were all terrible parents. I think my parents made plenty of
mistakes in my childhood but I think it all worked out pretty nicely. In my
opinion, they did a great job because I’m speaking my mind and I think that
is one of the most important things in life. So in a way, I think my parents are
perfect, as any good kid would, just as my parents are (hopefully) looking
away from these pages and continuing to pretend that I am perfect :D
You know, as much as I love them, I really hope I don’t have to become my
parents. Not because they aren’t good people. They are great people. Let’s
be real, we are our parents. Fifty-fifty. It’s just that I don’t want to live like
they do. None of us do. None of us want to be in this suffocating society that
has been done unto us. Fuck, they’re all gonna be gone someday, anyway.
Can we at least try to make our own decisions and attempt to make you
proud while you are still here? We may have solutions for some of our
current problems, but you don’t want to listen to us. By the time we have the
power to fix anything, we probably won’t have solutions because we’ll have
entirely new problems. I’d like to be able to attempt what we’ve got going on
right now, but they are too stubborn to ask for help—especially from people
half their age.
Guess what, boys? We outsmarted you. Granted, it’s only because of how
smart you are, but we still manage to be smarter. You gave us the genetics
and synthetic ability to do so and we’ve done it. We made it passed this
round of “It’s The End of the World!” Congratulations! Still, I don’t know if I’d
trust you guys with making your own decisions. Y’all fuckin’ ridiculous kinds
of stupid.
We don’t want to grow up. We are stalling the process of becoming our
parents because we really don’t want to do it.
We don’t want the same things it seems that they wanted. And with divorce
rates at an all-time high, it seems as though many of our parents didn’t
seem to know what they wanted. They wanted us, I guess. I can appreciate
that. I think we can all appreciate that. It’s almost like they sacrificed their
own happiness for our lives. That’s pretty cool. But are we just going to
sacrifice our happiness for our kids?
Probably not because we’d rather get fucked up than knocked up but being
fucked up sometimes leads to being knocked up.
And if we’re getting fucked up, something tells me we’re not that happy
when we’re not fucked up.
And if we’re fucked up, knocked up, and not happy… That’s a sticky
situation, huh?
So was the sacrifice of your happiness worth it if we still aren’t happy?
Are we gonna sacrifice our happiness in hopes that our children will have the
happiness we’ve all sacrificed?
Or is this an endless, miserable cycle?
In which case, WHAT THE FUCK IS THE
POINT?
If all we have to look forward to in life is being miserable, then I guess we’re
going to be on drugs for most of it.
Upon leaving the trap house, I stopped doing drugs for the most part. To say
I am entirely sober 100% of the time would be to lie. I don’t count weed as a
drug. Weed is my medicine. Aside from the pot I smoke, I very occasionally
will take some sort of psychedelic—like an acid representative—in attempts
to get my head together. In a way, I continue my research of hallucinogens
in psychology, but have long slowed the experiments down. There have been
other times I’ve consumed a pill or two that I’ve experimented with before,
free of charge—though I have caved and bought Vicodin in the past year.
(Come on. Rough months. Fuck off a minute.) Thing is, even when I intake
drugs, I still don’t get that fucked up. It’s been this way for years. I’m not
sure what it is. Perhaps, ultimately, my mind is stronger than the drugs it
takes because I know I don’t get shitty boo-boo drugs all the time. Especially
when I can see those around me actually fucked up on the same drugs.
Maybe I took enough acid long before taking all that acid.
The one thing that does get me fucked up is alcohol. That’s why I don’t drink.
For some reason, people love to get annihilated. They think it is just
awesome to get punched in the face or fucked in the ass and not feel it.
Almost everyone I have that I could consider a friend or even an
acquaintance drinks, and when they do, they don’t stop until the liquor is
gone. Once the liquor is gone, they get more. And after two a.m. when they
can’t buy any more, shit gets fucked up.
I’ll be the first to tell you, I’m an alcoholic. It runs wild through my family and
I’m one of those people who don’t stop ‘til it’s gone and I’m done. This is the
precise reason I don’t drink. Again, I’m not swearing on anyone’s grave that
I’ve not had a drop since I’ve ‘quit’. I will occasionally drink a beer and less
occasionally take a shot. And shit, if you tell me you got a liter of Admiral, I
might tell you I’m gettin’ drunk.
I would consider most of the people I have watched get shitty wasted to also
be alcoholics because it takes one to know one. Many of them will drink as
they do now until the day they die—which may be sooner than they wanted
to plan for. Or, not soon enough.
So if we’re all alcoholics, what’s the difference?
What is so great about it, anyway? When you are drunk, you can do
whatever you want and you don’t have to pay consequences for your actions
because you have the excuse that you were drunk? Cool, what the fuck? I’ll
do whatever the fuck I want whenever the fuck I want, regardless of the
substances in me. I know I don’t always make the best decisions. I’ve just
told you about all the things most people wouldn’t be proud of. I’m not
necessarily proud of it, but I’m gonna be honest about it because it
happened and you can’t change that.
But how can you get mad about our actions when we learned everything
from you?
Let’s put my words into perspective, okay? Say the world was ending. It’s not
going to end when you are expecting it. That’s just another tactic to instill
the fear we constantly live in. But say it was. How would you feel about that?
Are you prepared for the end of the world? Some people go to church and
pray and shit and they think that prepares them for the end of the world.
Hey, good for them. That’s a level I can respect. A lot of people go out and
buy supplies for the end of the world. Sure, you may get a few months in
you, best case apocalypse scenario? But like, when the world ends, it’s over.
Are you going to be satisfied with being the last man standing? Who is there
to tell?
Or does that make you…
THE ULTIMATE WINNER OF THE GAME OF LIFE?!
Is it what you have at the end of the world that determines how successful
you were at life? Is having all the remaining food and money going to allow
for your survival and therefore, make the end of the world a good thing for
you? Is that what will make you feel okay when you see the stars crash out
of the sky? When you see everything that has surrounded you your whole
existence up in smoke, will it make you feel better to know you’ll have
enough food when it becomes ash?
Because I’m just hoping that by the time the world does end, I’m happy.
Right about meow, I’d be pretty happy with the world ending, just because I
sort of despise humanity. I sure as hell hope I will have found some goddamn
peace, love, and fucking happiness when it does. I hope I die happy. I dream
I will have someone to face it with, because there is nothing else I could
possibly need at that point. But people don’t seem to see it that way. They
want to make sure they will survive to see nothing. Man, what is that? What
is left to see? You think that’s your big chance to rule the world? When there
is nothing left to rule? I guess I could see how that would be cool. However,
my life is people. Without people, I see no life. But most of them fuck me
over so bad I wish they were never in my life.
Then again, haters made us famous, right?
Rather than having to completely start over, I’d like to try and repair what
we have broken. Instead of waiting for the world to end to relieve us all of
the problems we’ve created for ourselves, let’s address the problems and
work on it. Instead of hiding behind excuses and dying with our sins and
secrets, let’s be honest with ourselves so we can be honest with each other
so we can stop destroying one another and therefore, the world around us,
as we have been. Let’s stop that, please?
Don’t hate on who we are when you made us that way. You can blame it on
cable television and social networking, but who is in charge of that shit?
You are.
No, I’m not asking for stronger censorship. I’m calling for a wider spread of
education so that we better understand the world around us. Stop saying,
“You’ll understand when you’re older.” Fuck that. Treat children like people
because that’s what they are. Why leave them out? I don’t think you need to
be graphically honest about everything you say to a kid, but don’t keep shit
from them. If they ask you a question, answer it. If I wasn’t so damn curious I
may have stayed out of some trouble. If all you want is for your offspring or
your students to stay out of trouble, stop trying to protect them from it by
making them think it’s not there. That’s one thing my mom definitely did
right. She was honest.
But it’s too late for Generation Y. We’ve answered our own questions. And
Generation Z isn’t even asking questions anymore. They have phones
smarter than all of us.
Here we are, damaged goods living in a broken society. You hate on us and
hate on us and hate on us for being sinners, or rebels, or fuck ups, or
whatever you want to call us but what do you expect? There is no hope left
in our world. We have nothing to do because we have no control. We have no
power, we have no money, and we have no faith. So we get high. You don’t
like it so you make it illegal and it pisses us off. Fueling a fire you started but
pay billions of dollars to put out.
WHAT THE FUCK, PRUDE? PUT OUT. PUT IT THE FUCK OUT!
You get mad that we are killing ourselves but we have nothing to live for but
the things we die for. What do you want us to do? You’re telling us the world
is about to end. How can you expect us to give a fuck about what happens if
Everything is going to end? And if it doesn’t end, it’s still gonna be a fuckin’
suck. We’re living in fear in hopes to be ruined because we only have
suffering to look forward to.
Why, people? Why? Why this world we live in?
Because that’s the way life is?
No.
What do you know about life that I don’t?
Because I’m pretty sure it’s absolutely nothing. We are all the same thing
and that is human being. So really, you don’t know any better than anyone
else. It’s simply a matter of what you believe. So don’t tell me, “That’s life.” I
don’t believe that. I’m sorry if you do believe in misery. Just so you know,
they are way cooler things you could believe that are much less depressing.
Just sayin’.
I may have done a lot of things you think I shouldn’t be proud of but here I
am putting them on public display for not much less of a reason than I don’t
give a fuck. I have nothing to hide. I’m so fucking sick of being lied to by it
seems like everyone I know because we’ve been raised and taught to feel
shame about the things we do and therefore ourselves. But as I live my life,
it seems as though the less shame you have, the more money you have. And
the more money you have, the more successful you are considered. Or does
that only work for “beautiful people”?
Do you think I’m beautiful?
Because that’s not what I’ve ever felt like. Especially because of you. I feel
like I’ll never because I wasn’t good enough for the only person I ever
wanted. But shit, I ain’t got shit else better going on. I might as well put
myself on display as others have and cross my fingers that my ride to Hell
can be loaded with wealth. I guess I’m willing to find out what you think of
me and you can tell me how I should make my money.
I’ll tell you who I am, you tell me what to do. I know what I’d like to do, but it
seems impossible. But the best fucking part about life?
Absolutely nothing is impossible.
Either we have a creator or we don’t. Say we do. Only our creator can be the
judge in what is right or what is wrong. Only this thing from which we
spawned can tell us what is true and what is false. And if there is no creator
in the biggest of the pictures, there isn’t even a judge. In that case, we
definitely don’t have a way to determine right and wrong. Either way, we are
all people and we are therefore all equal. We are all the same thing, and so
we are equally powerful because none of us can know anything for fact. We
have only experienced life as humans. If we don’t know how we got here, we
don’t know anything about it.
Technically speaking. It’s all about the technicalities of our realities because
those technicalities, or, these that I speak of, deem us lawless. Truly, we are.
I mean, you can bank on your beliefs all you want. I just can’t believe in
anything that doesn’t want me to live enough to enjoy Life. I can think of one
rule in humanity and that is to do no harm to others. That’s why I can’t help
but love Jesus! I just don’t jive with his daddy, so much…
Don’t tell me there is a way. I will go my own. I call you to go your own. Don’t
ever let someone tell you what you deserve, ever. Don’t let anyone make
you think you are entitled to any less than they are. Don’t think that what
you are given is what you have to take. Never believe you cannot have what
you want. When you go about the fairest way of playing the game—even
when you break some rules—your reality can be whatever you want it to be.
It’s just life and it’s so cool. It’s a game all about the player.
I don’t play games, bitch. I’m retired.
I live Life. I do what I gotta do to obtain the things I want. The number one
thing I have to do right now is clear my head. After Everything has been
done unto me, I need one moment to breathe. I can’t breathe drowning in an
ocean. After years of being unable to fully communicate to anyone what is
truly on my mind, I decided I needed to write a book just to get it all out. I
dream my words are worth anyone’s time and in that time, help that anyone.
That would be the best thing that could ever happen to me. That’s what
would really help me. If I knew that if every last ounce of shit that was shat
on my face allowed someone to have even just a drop of gold, it would have
been worth it. I’ve dealt with a lot. We all have. But I see way too many
people pretend like they have nothing to worry about for me to keep my
mouth shut.
Hey, let’s face our fears so we can conquer them. Let’s drop these stupid
acts we put on for each other, eliminate all the bullshit and get real with
each other. Let’s stop raging against each other and rally together. If no one
wants to give us hope in anything, let’s create our own hope. Obviously, the
American Dream turned out to be a total Suburban Nightmare. Let’s dream
about somethin’ else.
But it seems to me like nobody around here dreams anymore.
It’s hard to sleep with ghosts at your feet. For some people. I’m comfortable
with my ghosts. When you address Death personally, he gets more and more
polite. I think me making that statement frightens a certain kind of person. I
found comfort in ghosts because it has helped me get a better grasp on
Death and I have learned to accept someday I will die. I don’t want to die. I
mean, eventually, I think I will feel satisfied enough to. However, I want to
live my life to the longest, fullest maximum I possibly can.
To be honest, though… Sometimes, the other option seems more likely… \m/
LOL FUCK MY LIFE LY
By living my life by the Scientific Method, I have discovered the Universe.
Granted, I did drugs along the way and that is also how many people
discover the Universe. But in reality, drugs are just science. And your
concoctions of over-counter, underground drugs have made us feel
invincible. We’re ready for anything because we care about nothing because
it seems our futures hold misery.
Bitch… Please.
I refuse to have that Life. I wish everyone would refuse that Life. I wish
people could do what made them happy because society would be so much
more enjoyable if we were all happy. Instead, we work to be happy but never
finish the job. Or we live for small moments. I mean, it’s nice to have the
small moments. But fuck, man. We’re here once. Why doesn’t everyone want
to celebrate that? Holy shit, you exist in my reality and I love you! There is
nothing in the world that makes me happier than you do! Sometimes, I get
the urge to shout it in your face how much I love you! I’m sorry you don’t get
as excited as I do. I bet it looks so overwhelming from the outside. I’m not on
drugs. I’m on that Life shit. I’m on some people shit. It’s love that makes me
so crazy. I enjoy the drug scenes without the drugs because I’m a fuckin’
drug, I guess.
Most people that have an issue with the wild side to life is the dark side of
drugs that influence it. That’s too bad. I’ve done my fair share of drugs and
I’ve seen and heard and done some cool shit on these drugs. When I was first
experimenting with drugs, I was very curious about them. I did indeed have a
Leary point in my experiments in which I did think the world would be a
better place if everyone was on acid all the time. Now, that’s kind of the
problem with acid. It can make people think that way. That doesn’t mean
everyone that takes acid thinks that way. Most people that have used it will
say the same thing, and that it is not for everyone.
I think the underlying reason I felt this way is because I had only experienced
Universal Consciousness while under the influence of drugs. After trippin’
somewhere into at least three-digits in this dimension, I learned that I didn’t
need to take psychedelics to feel the side effects upon ingestion. I wanted
other people to reach this conclusion as well. Here I am trying to explain
Universal Consciousness, but I think the thing about it is you have to figure it
out yourself. So I tried to hold every raging fist I could find to walk them
through an acid trip in hopes that they would find what I found. It seemed as
though they were too distracted by all the things I never saw: the visuals.
It’s too bad. The one drug that could have been useful isn’t because we’re
too concentrated on getting away from this reality before us. We love the
feeling of invincibility, though it is a lie. It’s like we can’t enjoy anything
unless we’re under the influence of something. I wish the love we felt on
lysergic acid diethylamide was possible to achieve without it, but we’d rather
not feel. It leaves us some very selfish beings.
Can we fix it? Can people be taught to be selfless rather than selfish? Or is it
something you are born with? Is our nature to be selfish? Because I think
Mother Nature shows us quite a bit of tolerance. It would be nice if we could
show a little respect back.
And maybe if we respected the world around us, we’d begin to respect
ourselves enough to start respecting each other. Is that a solution?
Or do you people enjoy giving a fuck about bullshit and not caring about
Everything? If that is how you wish to be, so be. But if anyone else is willing
to work on it, I know I sure am.
I’m here to help, remember?
I don’t see enough smiles in a day. When we have a bad day, we can see it.
But when every day is bad, what is left to look at? These last few years have
brought me down so far, I can’t get any lower. I know I’m not the only one.
How am I ever going to feel any better if people are what make me happy
and all the people in my line of vision aren’t any better than me?
Especially when they all act like fucking fools about how sad they are.
Yeah, I get it. You’ve been through some shit. Me too. But damn. Is it really
necessary to be fucked up all the time? I mean, as you’ve read, I’ve been
through some shit. I get it. I know how you feel. I may not be doing exactly
what you’re doing but you haven’t done exactly what I’ve done, either. All I
do is smoke weed. Most people prefer when I’m stoned. I stay slightly
subdued and carry on with my day.
And yet it is perfectly legal for girls who are at least twenty-one-years-old,
though no more than sixteen-in-the-head, to get embarrassingly sloppy in
hopes to be used as a sex toy of the evening’s event?
Why? So you can take my money for your prescription drugs instead?
Okay. Sell me weed, then. Jesus Christ. You tax my alcohol, you tax my
cigarettes; you might as well tax my weed and not my paycheck.
Because I don’t suck dick.
I think the act of sucking dick is extremely degrading. My mouth is used to
eat and I’m a vegetarian. No, I will not eat your meat. These lips can be
yours for you to kiss, but I’m not going to kiss your cock. This hole is for
speaking, not for your stick to keep me quiet.
As a woman, it’s hard to trust men. Especially when men have wronged you,
a woman, over time. Sure, you may want to help me but in the end oh, you
just want to fuck me. Awesome. One of many reasons I wish I were a lesbian.
Or just had a fucking penis. I think it’s pretty fucking disgusting how men
can’t take honesty seriously. I mean, I don’t want to sound like a dick-hating
feminist because I hate these stupid pussies just as much as I hate these
scheming dicks. I’d like to believe males and females can see eye-to-eye
someday, but men are too fascinated by our vaginas to care about much
else. Not that most of those vaginas have much else to offer, anyway. It’s
upsetting to me that people just use each other. It turns people, my favourite
thing, into robots, my least favourite thing. It’s so disgusting. Maybe I’m just
a whiny vagina. I mean, there will probably someone who will eventually
read this book that is going to discredit everything I say solely for my vagina.
They will crack the pages knowing they don’t like me because I’m a feminist.
Guess what? I’m not only a feminist, but also a fucking cunt and will continue
to be one until there we have Equalism upon us.
I’m gonna believe that person is jealous that they aren’t as smart as me, and
they are going to laugh at me comforting myself because they are going to
hold their prejudices.
Cool, glad we had this talk.
I guess the only way I can see the need for whoredom is if I truly am just a
reproductive product. If all I will ever be to every male I meet is a vagina,
then I don’t even really want to reproduce. But I also don’t want to get with a
girl to make us both feel better because most girls don’t deserve to feel
better about their selves. Avoiding your problems doesn’t make you any
stronger. Learning from your mistakes does. But if you never pay
consequences for your actions, you never really learn that you have made a
mistake. You just continue to get away with it.
Plus, I know for a fact I’m not a lesbian.
I just said fact after I tried to eliminate the word from your vocabulary. The
one thing I think we always know for a fact is the way we feel. I think I
mentioned this earlier, but I am happy to reiterate this point. It’s still true.
When the only thing we know for certain is that we are conscious, the only
thing that can be fact to us is what we feel. If the only thing in life that
matters is yourself, the only thing you can truly trust is what you feel.
But we’ve turned off feeling. Please Turn It On. Why are you doing everything
you can to suffocate the only truth we know? Stop with your thought-stunting
drugs and your poisonous inhibiters. Unless you want to look me in the face
and tell me you want to die. Then I’ll let you do whatever the fuck you want.
I’m also going to ask you why you feel this way. It’d probably be more useful
to ask you while under the influence of your fatal recreationals because you
would be more inclined to telling me the truth. The problem is the denial that
comes with sobering up the next day. The only way to live with the shame
being to once again get fucked up.
But because I’m slightly on the mentally unstable side, I can’t be your
therapist unless I take the drugs I advocate against. It is the only way to
acquire the patience I don’t have for college. I’m very tolerant, but I’m not
very patient. Well, shit. I don’t know how much “time” I have. I don’t know
when my existence will cease to exist. Of course I’m not patient. I am not
trying to waste one single moment. I love this shit way too much. It’s
unfortunate how much it feels like I’m wasting. I have space to explore, what
the fuck am I doing making sandwiches?
Yo. Dick. Don’t even think it. We don’t take orders.
I think it’s absolutely ridiculous what girls with do for boys’ attention. It’s
even worse what these girls will do to each other because of these boys. As
long as we are human, we will be stuck in this lustful sex cycle and I don’t
much care to be a part of it.
First prize don’t need to compete.
But no one has claimed the prize.
Because people don’t care to listen.
Oh, well.
Is that cocky? Bitch, I’m the sun.
What are you?
People get really mad about the shit I say. There’s a lot of thought behind
these statements, but they come from some whole other level that I’ve
gotten lost in. Once you are all caught up with the game I played on the level
you’re on, we can start talking about the level I’m on. But until then, do your
best to figure me out before you judge me. Obviously, if you are reading the
guide to understand me, you’re curious. I don’t blame you. We’re all a little
curious about drugs. But don’t get fucked up. Don’t get my shit fucked up.
We can fuck shit up but don’t be gettin’ fucked up on my shit. That’s the
complete opposite of what I’m out to do here.
Figure it out. If you care enough to hate me, you should at least understand
why you do. They say you can’t hate someone unless they represent to you
something you hate about yourself. I think that is true. I think it’s possible
you could have change that part about you and that’s why you hate them,
but I think that can also work in reverse. People can just as well hate you for
what they cannot change of their own. Some people find me to be quick to
judge. I am just really good at reading people. I’m sorry I can read people
faster than they can write themselves. I’d say I’m right about eight out of ten
times. Why waste any time on something I can almost safely assume is going
nowhere? The same reason I put so much effort into what I think will. I’m
wrong about that, sometimes, too.
I’m actually glad there are so many people that seem to truly despise my
existence and activity voice this distaste for me because I think it helps filter
people—true, of course, being a relative term. I’m willing to keep talking if
anybody is listening. I think conversation is the most enjoyable activity on
the planet. People assume that means I want to talk about “stupid girl shit”
like the mall and cells phones. My clothes are from the Salvation Army and
my cell phone flips. I don’t like overwhelmingly intelligent technology. I don’t
trust people enough. It’s a personal thing, I guess.
But suddenly, I have Optimus Prime for a phone and a damn-near impossible
Windows 8. Shit’s legit but man, it’s crazy.
I want to discuss the infinite amount of possibilities in the space beyond
what’s in front of our faces. I’m over all this shit, man. It seems like my
distaste for the bullshit has gotten to a new extreme. Maybe if the world
ended and we had the chance to start over, we could do things better the
next time around. I don’t know if I’d even survive the end of the world, but
I’d hope some elite mother fuckers did, you know? And I certainly hope we
don’t end our own world in fear it will end. That’s why I wish people would
stop fighting about stupid shit and just fucking enjoy life. I get that not
everyone is going to smoke weed and dance half-naked in fields, but all of
the happiest people I know have. So maybe people do need to just loosen up
a bit.
It’s so funny because I’ve actually become wound up pretty tight due to
people not being able to let go. I hold onto a lot, too. Clearly, I’ve been
holding onto a lot. I’m not going to deny that a hundo inna book. But now I’m
going to let go. I’m not going to get continuously obliterated so I can
continuously forget what the fuck has me continuously upset so I can
continuously sober up and remember only to put the act on repeat.
Fuck that. I am not about that life. I’d rather face my demons and move on
with it. Because I got it, baby.
FORGET THE LIVING / FORGIVE THE DEAD
Don’t use your trauma as an excuse to do whatever you want, and don’t
expect alcohol to be an excuse to get away with your decisions. Deal with it.
Deal with whatever it is that is holding you back so that it may propel you
forward. I’ve stared the Devil down in my submarine on wheels. I’m not
afraid of you. I’m not afraid of your past. I will judge you for what you’ve
done not based on the action itself but the thought behind the action. I can
live with reason if you carry respect. Without the respect, though, I can’t
exactly reason with you.
Not that I can tell you what to do. This is simply the best advice I have and
the exact route that lead me to it. The Universe posed a hypothetical
question and I gave it a literal answer because logic puzzles entertain me.
I just want to run wild through space. Can you reason with that? If I stab you
in the third eye, will you open it? Get me in bed and I’ll fuck you like a porn
star. Catch me in thought and I’ll mind fuck you to the moon and back. I will
stick my dick in your third eye if that’s what it takes to get it open.
It seems like most people I’ve met are too fascinated with the world around
them to keep it open. Some people really hate getting mind fucked by me
because some people are just quickies. I know whose minds to make love to,
or at least have some good sex with. And I know who is going to fail to
stimulate my brain with their quickies. Either way, I enjoy mind fucking. It’s
what I’m best at. The reason I do it is because I love people, though. I just
want people to think for themselves, but I think some people struggle with
that. They have opinions but it seems only in vain taste. I’m so curious about
the Universe. Why isn’t anyone else? If Earth is making us miserable, maybe
we should see if we can get the fuck out of here.
Oh, because you’re too busy being wasted. And racist. Seriously? It’s 2013
and you are still going to judge someone based upon their skin colour?
You’re going to make fun of me for having sex with a black guy? You’re going
to refer to every black person you see as a nigger? What the fuck is wrong
with you? And you think it’s the same when you say “nigger” and when I say
“nigga”? You’re fucking stupid. Hey, maybe it’s not my place to use that
word because I’m white. Let me know if I’m not allowed to do that. But the
way I see it, shit. I love black people. Like, if we have to go on stereotypes
right now, I love black people. And if we go on history, I hate white people.
Ma nigga’s my nigga regardless of colour because I like the word and I am all
about words but also, damn. How fucking cool is it to think a group of people
took a label given to them with not only a negative intention but with all
sorts of disrespect to turn it around and make something else of it?
That’s fucking awesome. Way to go “Black People”.
I hate the idea of oppression or segregation or racism in general. It is so
stupid. You need to realize that enemies do not have colours. Just as many
white people you know have probably treated you just as badly as the black
people you know but you probably don’t even know any black people
because if you did, you’d realize that not all black people are hood rats and
not all hood rats are black people.
But there are people who are still fucking racist.
Open your eyes and look at my Suburban city. It’s fucked up. It is sex, drugs,
and church songs. Granted, we have rock n roll and hip hop like any good
heathens would, but only because we didn’t like the songs we were singing.
We don’t exactly want what we’re given. I suppose nobody does. But doing
the same things over and over again in other different places is never going
to lead you to something you do want. Until you go and experience an
alternative lifestyle, you can’t really complain about what you have, right?
I think I have. And I think the thing is, we should just merge. We need to
collide. I’m the one wrapped up in planets. Everything has been saying
something is going to hit the Earth.
Could it be COMET COMMON SENSE?!
I’m trying to reason with every last detail of my life. It seems like every
person, every event, every moment, every experience of my life was a piece
to a puzzle and this is my puzzle put together. I don’t think it’s finished. But
I’m beginning to see a picture form as I attach piece to piece. I hope
someday it does get finished, even if my last piece is Death. Even if the
picture turns out to be a practical joke on me and I wasted my whole life
trying to put it together, I will be glad to have it finished.
But I definitely think I’ve gotten all the pieces there are to find in Suburbia.
I’m done here.
It’s probably my fault that I don’t get along with anyone. It will always all be
my own fault, in the end. As for anyone in anything. We make all our own
decisions. Maybe if girls made better decisions, guys wouldn’t be such dicks.
But maybe they make stupid decisions because guys are dicks. It doesn’t
matter. The female ultimately has the upper hand at the end of the day and
in the bedroom because they have the vagina. However, such a hollow
satisfaction to be able to see a man on his knees behind closed doors when
you are publically humiliated for all to see.
Oh, fuck me. I don’t shut the fuck up so fuck me the shut up. I’d prefer it in
the brain because that’s what really gets me going but if it has to be my
cunt, fine. But don’t think these gorgeous, flaming lips will ever stop spitting
fire. If I don’t reach another dimension, they’ll love me in Hell because I’m
pretty sure Heaven doesn’t want shit to do with me.
Have you ever thought maybe Hell isn’t a place where you are punished for
sin, but a place you continue to sin? According to your rules, God rules
Heaven and Satan rules Hell. The reason the two worlds exist is because God
and Satan disagreed. We play the game of Life and the way we play
determines whose team we will be on in the game of death. In this theory I’m
making up as I go along, either Satan is a total psychotic sadist or there is
more to this story than people want to admit. Why would you believe
breaking God’s rules means you are punished by someone whose rules you
didn’t break? That doesn’t make any sense. Why would God banish you to
Hell because you committed sins against him if the punisher awaiting you in
Hell encourages you to sin? Wouldn’t Satan then reward sinners for doing as
he wished?
God isn’t in control, here. The playing field of Earth is split fifty-fifty. Just like
everything else. So God takes half and the Devil takes the other half. They
have control over those who believe in them, so in Death they are divided
into teams. Then there are those who do not believe, and stay where they
are without being noticed.
Well, by most people, anyway. That’s Purgatory, when neither side can take
you. I think you can get to space from Purgatory. Like the Star.
So Earth is pretty neutral because in religious-based theory, we are a divided
people: Sinners and Saints. Right? So Satan gets Sinners and God gets Saints
and the neutralist realists get left out in Purgatory. That’s the idea. I guess
there’s also the idea that Hell is layered. I’m a big fan of layers. When it gets
cold, I layer up. I totally believe in layers. And lairs! Like Paige’s Magic Lair.
And dungeons and lairs are pretty similar, so Roxy’s Sex Slave Dungeon is
sort of like a Lair, too!
LOL Oops! Gettin’ lost in Lolly Land LY
Not that we ever really left…
But I don’t think I believe in Layers of Hell. I’m pretty sure that’s a Biblical lie.
No offense. I’m just thinkin’ it is all level. There’s no way God and Satan
aren’t equally powerful if people are left to decide who reigns supreme
because even if we don’t worship the fucking Devil because I don’t worship
the Devil—I’ve just met the fucker on a couple occasions, feel me? I know the
guy. I happen to live a lifestyle that he approves of and God doesn’t, so I’m
thinking that when it comes time, I’ll be going to Hell. It’s not because I don’t
like God, but I do think he’s a bullshitter.
If religion is true, then we can’t be told what to do because it’s not up to
them whose team we are on. It’s not about the faith instilled in us; it’s about
the feeling within us. It is in your soul, not in your body. What good is going
to church if you’re a complete bitch all the time? What does it matter if you
don’t go to church if you follow the teachings of the religion? And if you are
forced to go to church, does it even count? If you are feared into believing
something but don’t want to, isn’t that just as bad as not believing it?
I think the only way the idea of Heaven and Hell can work is if there is a
place in Hell like Heaven and a place in Heaven like Hell. Same rules that
apply to Everything else. There’s good in bad and bad in good. Assuming
Heaven is total peace and freedom is assuming Hell is but the same. In this
idea, there would be a place in Heaven you were punished if you were to
break a rule there and maybe in Hell, there’s a place you can take a break
from the lifestyle. Earth is not the land of either God or Satan. That is not
determined until we die. So until then, there can’t really be rules, other than
those enforced by the Control of people. Only we know the motive behind
our actions. You can’t tell me, but I could tell you. And here, I have.
I don’t make hidden agendas. I make game plans. Hidden agendas only
benefit the beholder. Anyone is welcome to be in on game plans!
LOL Number four is always hit the cash machine LY
I don’t believe any person can actually hold any power over another person
because we are all equal. I don’t believe something you don’t know is there
should hold power over you, either. So why base your Life on something out
of your realm? If anything, they have control over our Death. So we should
enjoy Life—while we can guarantee it is ours—however the fuck we want. But
don’t think you will ever escape Death. Don’t wanna die? Don’t do things
that are going to kill you. And don’t think not doing drugs means you follow
those rules. Cars kill just as many people as drugs do. You get in a car
everyday of your life. If you risk it for the sake of your job, you might as well
risk it for your enjoyment.
I haven’t tried everything, but I’ve tried enough. I’m still here. Plus, I think
we’ve all contemplated suicide at some time or another. We all have our
reasons and here, none of us have done it. You can quit the game, or you
can die trying to win. But when you die, you lose.
LOL Kill yourself or die trying LY
Do what you want and don’t worry about what I’m doin’. Maybe what I’m
doing isn’t all that bad when you disregard the rules I’m supposed to follow.
Based on my rules, I’m living the right way. And since it’s my Life, I’m gonna
follow my rules. Does that make me stubborn? I think it makes me human.
Do no harm to others and you can do whatever you want because your life is
no more or less valuable than mine.
Is this empowerment? Or is it independence? Maybe both?
Regardless of what you want to call it, not enough people feel it. Especially
not enough females. Most girls become what you want them to be so that
they can get you to do what they want. Or, they do what they can to make
you want them to get what they want—even if you are not what they want.
Just because you can, doesn’t mean you should. Am I the only one that feels
sex should be enjoyed and not turned into a game? Probably. I’m just a
myth.
Where are the beautiful women of the world?
No one wants to admit that we exist. That is how we have become mythical
creatures. Women wish they were us, men wish to have us, but we cannot be
imitated or tamed. We are a threat to society because we are young,
intelligent, and ruthless. We are not supposed to be able to outsmart anyone
while being gawked at by everyone. We are a show the world has never
seen. We have come at a time in which women can be heard but are not
saying much. We are everything no one wants us to be. Any room we walk
into becomes a stage, and the show is to be ourselves. When we leave it, we
are called for an encore. For some reason, people stare in awe; be it out of
curiosity, admiration, or total fear. They are mystified by the faces we don
and the words that fly out of our mouths, better composed and at faster
speeds than any other pretty girls they’ve ever encountered. We the women
that are more in touch with outer space and Mother Nature than any person
they have ever met. And of course, the biggest and baddest of bitches that
are still walking the planet. We were not born vain, nor do we mean to be.
We simply have come to learn over time that we are one in millions and two
in the same. We never thought much of ourselves until we realized the world
around us completely adored us.
…Oh. Us…
“Let your tracks be lost in the dark and snow”
A LONG AND STRANGE TRIP, INDEED
“Do you realize that you have the most beautiful face? Do you realize we’re floating in space? Do you realize that happiness makes you cry? Do you realize that
everyone you know someday will die?”
So, I guess that’s the story of my life. Here I am just Truckin’. But goddamn, are my legs getting tired from Truckin’ in these heavy boots.
It was always us. It will always be us. This is just what I have to do right now.
I hope you understand it someday. I believe you will. I remember what it was
like. But because I remember, I never want to do it again. Do what you have
to. It doesn’t mean I don’t love you. I know you’ll come back to me, my
American Beauty.
Sometimes, I sit back and I reflect on the time that has escaped me year
after year of my existence. It feels like everything up until now felt like life,
but sometimes I wonder how much of my life has been lived. I work a
minimum wage job and I suck at it. I have been completely drained of all the
energy I once had, physically, mentally, and emotionally. I wake up to work
and when I don’t work, I don’t really wake up but I hate waking up for work.
It’s a difficult conundrum to deal with. I’ve tried so many different solutions
but this is really the only one I can think of. If you made it this far, I really
appreciate the fact that you cared enough about what I had to say.
Truthfully, I just needed to get all these thoughts out of my fucking head. It
seems as though I am twenty-four-hour thought factory but it’s beginning to
look more like Chernobyl than fucking Coca-Cola.
Honestly, I don’t know what to do anymore. Lately, I feel like I am Yoshimi
and I don’t exactly know what to do about that. Well, I know exactly what to
do about that. It’s just not up to me to decide that I’m Yoshimi, no matter
how much it appears that way. I mean, hasn’t he been looking this whole
time? He’s been singing to her for decades. She never came.
LOL That’s because I’m stuck in Suburbia LY
It would be so cool if it all came true. You can’t make the lives worth the loss;
but I think we could make the loss worth the lives. I feel like I’ve seen how it
should happen. It’s like he walked me through the worst thing of my life,
even if I was sleeping. I want to believe in visions. I think it would be hard to
deny some type of telepathy or psychic ability but perhaps I have peered
into the future. Or maybe it is only the future if I make it so. I don’t know, am
I controlling my own destiny or am I just totally fucking nuts? It just makes
me think it’s not over yet and I think it is much healthier for the head to have
some hope in the moments after the darkest hour.
I promised this girl I would make it okay someday and that day hasn’t come.
It’s not too much better than it ever was. It’s not over until it is okay. I simply
hope I can make it good again, but I will be damn sure to make this okay. It
is the very least I can do. I’m not sure how to make it okay because after
months of trying to make it okay, it ended in silence. But I do know what
would make it good. It is just unfortunately out of my control…
It’s in his laser hands…
And if those laser hands would align the planets and connect the Sun and the
Moon to tell the tale of Life and Death in words of Gods, she wouldn’t be the
only one that would feel better. This whole sick city would feel better. I bet
there are other cities like ours out there somewhere. I think they could
appreciate hearing the stories because they can relate to them. That was my
whole point, anyway. I surely hope someone out there knows what I’m going
through. Hey, dude. I’m here for you. The difference between us is the
attitude. When all Hell breaks loose, you gotta find some Heaven. There is a
balance to maintain. We need good with weight because this was the
heaviest shit.
I won’t allow these slaughtered hearts to die in battle. They will go beyond
surviving. They will Live again. They will beat again, they will smile again.
They will even love again. I’ll be sure of it. The only way to deal with your
issues is to fix them. Don’t just use them as an excuse. Why hide behind
what you should leave behind? Wear your scars loud and proud and scream
a little—you know, go ahead and freak the fuck out. But do it with a smile.
Take all you can from Everything that happens and be happy it happened.
Find a reason to be happy it happened. For me, I always think of how happy
other people could be when I’m sad. There are times I am selfish when I am
upset, but I just try to think of every loss as some other win. There’s a
balance. There is hope at rock bottom.
The only way to get to the top is if you start on your ass at the bottom. You
have climb Mount Shit during a shitstorm to get to the top but waiting there
is all your wildest dreams, alive and waiting for you. It’s the game you play.
Life, we call it? If you get through all the bad, there will be some good
waiting for you when it’s finally over. It won’t ever be easy, but someday, it
will be. When it starts to get too hard, people settle where they are and they
stop reaching for the top. If I’m still going after all this shit, there is nothing
that is going to stop me.
I know I wouldn’t be where I am without the two of you and I think everyone
would feel better seeing that for themselves. To turn hate into love is some
of the most powerful energy you can produce! It is so hard to ignore
something as beautiful as that. He’s dead, so it’s or job. This is all I ever
think about. It’s hard not to think about her. How could I stop? I made a
promise and I intend on keeping it because I don’t think anyone else has
promised her anything in a long time. It takes extraordinary happiness to
cure extraordinary sadness.
I would love to prove that Everything happens for a reason. I would love to
prove some of my hypothesizes, much like yours, into theories by making
these words come true.
There’s always the Wyck.
I often think I should have held onto the love I had if that’s all I really want. I
should have graciously accepted the happy life I was handed that wouldn’t
have been as happy as it looked. I would have been infected with
Suburbanite. I don’t actually regret it because I still don’t believe you have to
take what you are given. I believe we have the ability to change it. I guess
it’s just funny to think of how many possible outcomes there were to my life.
I could have been my ex-boss’s daughter if God existed. He would have
made me a full-blood Italian. I often think of these different lives I could have
had and how in ways, they could have been easier or something. But no
matter what I think it could have been, I never think, “I wish it would have
been.”
It hasn’t always been that way. When I was younger, I spent too much of my
time wishing I was anything but me. Now, I couldn’t be happier about it. I
know I have wronged people, but I have apologized. If I have the forgiveness
of those I have wronged, then I am at peace. I don’t need to be forgiven by
someone who has nothing to do with it. I never mean to hurt people. Maybe
people don’t mean to hurt me either. I find that statement hard to apply to
absolutely everyone because I do think some people just don’t care if they
hurt other people.
I could be wrong. I may just be paying for my mistakes. Perhaps the
shambles my life is in is because I chose not to have it simple. I complicated
my life as it is now. I want to say other people have played a role; done me
wrong or made me crazy. At the end of every day, though, it is my fault. It is
all entirely my fault. I may have not wanted or asked or physically made
things happen myself, but I am the only reason my life is the way it is. It’s a
bummer, but it’s the truth. It is a sad reality most people will never realize, I
think. At least I can be thankful for that. For actually knowing not about the
world around me, but the space above me—the Everything I am a part of.
The grander scheme; the larger pictures. It makes living the right now here
on planet Earth so incredibly difficult, but I hope—assuming I don’t lose all of
it—that someday, it will be worth it. It will pay off having this bank of insanity
or knowledge in my head. It could possibly be a good thing in the long-run,
when the painting is finished. But life the way it is… Extremely difficult.
I have, over time, become bored with the world around me. This had led me
to become more in tune with the space around the world I have become
bored of. I’m so unsatisfied with everything and everyone. Maybe that makes
me a stupid, picky bitch. Maybe I should learn to shut my mouth and not
complain because everyone deals with the things I deal with, right? I’m not
any different or any more special than anyone else, why do I feel a need to
write a fucking book of my problems when we all have problems?
I don’t know.
I guess I am looking for anyone to tell me they understand where I’m coming
from. Maybe I’m waiting for someone to save me. People say we can only
save ourselves but I think that’s bullshit. A solitary man stays alive but a
group of men does thrive. I’ve been miserable for a long time and I have
thoroughly enjoyed life and I’m finding myself miserable again. What really
gets me is how miserable everyone around me is, too! Why is everybody so
fucking miserable?! And if we’re all so miserable, why aren’t we doing
anything about it? Life is hard, life is hard. It sucks and then you die. Really?
Is that it? Because I don’t think anyone is allowed to tell me how to live my
life when we’re all as ignorant as the next.
We are consciously here once. This one time, we get to be on planet Earth.
Maybe we carry on when we move forward. Maybe we’ve travelled far to get
here. But hey, can we enjoy it while we last? We are terrified of the end of
the world but why? Everything fucking sucks, anyway. The economy is
crashing, the Control is failing, and people are wasting like we’re not having
a tomorrow as it is. Are we seriously going to be the end of our own world? If
that’s the case, then what the fuck was the point?
Anybody out there?
Anybody?
Anybody?Because I’m really sick of feeling so alone when I know the biggest problem
among people is that exact thing. I’ve known a lot of people over these
twenty years. When you can’t keep friends longer than six months, you end
up knowing a lot of fucking people. Sometimes, I turn into a bit of a recluse
because people disappoint me so much. I bet I disappoint people, too. I
disappoint myself.
But even when I want nothing to do with anyone, even when I want to be
alone and die, I always come around. What makes me feel this way is the
exact thing that makes me feel better: People. When I feel like I am nothing,
it is because I have no one. Some people find this to be annoying because
they see it as clingy. I’m told that I’m needy. I’m sorry; I just don’t find any
sort of technology or activity or anything on this planet more interesting and
entertaining than people! It is assumed that it is because I need love.
“I am human and I need to be loved, just like everybody else.” Isn’t that
right, Morrissey?
The thing is, I don’t feel a need to be loved as strongly as I feel a need to
love. That’s why I have loved people who haven’t loved me back. At this
point, it would be nice to love and be loved back, but it’s never been
necessary. I just want people to love because I look at this world we live in
and I see absolutely no love involved with it. Did anyone ever stop to think
I’m so paranoid because we live in fear? Maybe that’s why marijuana causes
paranoia—because it’s ILLEGAL so we’re paranoid about getting caught! Shit,
that’s the only thing that makes this paranoid schizophrenic feel not so
fucking paranoid, but you didn’t like the hemp industry beating out the oil
company so you made the plant illegal. It’s totally okay to get drunk enough
to die but no, you may not get high!
Maybe I’ll move to Colorado when I’m twenty-one. Even though I’ve been
thinking about not smoking, anyway. I’d still like the option to do so if I so
please.
I’d rather partake in a fun, social activity with people that keep me livin’ than
be zonked out on prescription meds. Is that such a horrible thing? I’d rather
learn to live with my flaws than pretend like they don’t exist. I’ve never seen
a psychologist because they’d probably tell me things I already know about
myself, and that would more than likely lead to a psychiatrist to put me on
anti-psychotics. Am I actually crazy for not wanting to not feel, even if my
emotions could someday kill me?
We all have problems and what I’ve learned over time is that the only way to
really work out these problems and figure out solutions to them is to get
them out of your head. I had to get all of this shit out of my head. It’s funny,
because this book is what I think about on a day-to-day basis. It’s a lot to
handle, and I’d like to move on with my life. But in order to do that, I had to
get it all out of my head. And I figured instead of overwhelming some
therapist with all this, I’d share with everyone because I really didn’t have
anything better to do. All I am are words of thought.
Does that make me a philosopher? If so, what does philosophy matter to
people with the Internet?
I don’t know what to do. I live for people, so I guess I want people to tell me
what to do. I’d love to be a therapist. I think I’d be pretty good at it, all things
considered. But if I have to go to college to prove myself to you, then I guess
I’ll never be a therapist because I can’t do college. I tried. I failed. Maybe I
give up too easily, but it’s probably mostly that I freak out too easily. Maybe
someday they can medicate me and I’ll go to college to get a degree to
medicate more people with problems and live a life I have thus far fought
against and ultimately forfeit everything I believe in…
Or would you help save my soul and let me be your therapist now?
Because we could all use someone to talk to. I’d love to be the person you
talk to. I have a really hard time getting people to open up to me and trust
me enough to talk to me about the way they feel or the thoughts they never
share as a friend because friends these days don’t do that. I’m so interested
in what you have to say. I’d so love to know how you feel. I know and now
you know how crazy my mind can be. Is yours like that? Do you have
opinions like mine or as strong as mine? Is there anything you want to do
that you’re not doing? Because there’s a whole mess of things I’d rather be
doing than what I’m doing now.
I could easily go to college, get a degree in psychology, and make money
being a therapist. I could make even more money if I became a psychiatrist
and prescribed people drugs. But instead of allowing me to do this, I first
have to prove I can do everything else. In order to help with people’s
emotional damage and mental issues, I have to pass a Pre-Calculus and
Trigonometry class. I have to prove that I can do something I don’t
understand in order to do something I already understand. In high school, I
took Sociology and General Psychology. In my year at community college, I
took entry-level Sociology and Psychology. Two years after dropping out of
college due to failing a math class, I helped a girl get through witnessing an
axe-murdering. After two weeks with me, the therapist she then saw told her
she hadn’t expected her to be as far along as she was. Needless to say, she
didn’t return to a therapist until I was no longer by her side.
Now, I’m not saying I’m a better therapist than this woman. But I will say, I
was most definitely more prepared to handle that situation than she was. Or,
I did such a sufficient job in the time between the incident and the time she
saw the therapist that the therapist was no longer necessary. What was
supposed to be twelve sessions was condensed in two weeks straight with
me. Do I really need a certification from someone who took longer than I
have to be able to do a job I am more than capable of? Especially because
she wasn’t my first client.
I used to be as satisfied with being a waitress as it would satisfy me to be a
psychologist. I’d sever good food until I die. But I can’t deal with the
ignorance of people in addition to the over processed chemical bullshit that
these ignorant people eat. I couldn’t take it anymore. Maybe I have too much
anger, but I can’t stand pretending to be something I’m not. I’ve spent my
life trying to figure out who I am. There is nothing you can do to shake me.
I’ll follow your rules to the best of my ability but if I can’t see the sense is
something, I’m probably not going to do it. That’s why I can’t keep jobs long.
I’m a Taurus and I’m too headstrong, I suppose. And overtime, my life has
complicated itself and myself to a point that seems almost irreversible.
That’s why I would love to channel this anger into something positive, like
music.
I think the only thing I like as much as I like people is music, but I prefer
music with people. If I didn’t have music like the Flaming Lips and Peter
Gabriel and the Flaming Lips and the Grateful Dead and the Flaming Lips and
Jane’s Addiction and the Flaming Lips and Janis Joplin and the Flaming Lips
and Pink Floyd and the Flaming Lips and Brand New and the Flaming Lips
and the Format or Fun. and the Flaming Lips and Nick Cave and the Flaming
Lips and Rush and the Flaming Lips and Blind Melon and the Flaming Lips
and Paula Cole and the Flaming Lips and Flogging Molly and the Flaming Lips
and Gogol Bordello and the Flaming Lips and Lloyd Cole and the Flaming Lips
and Joe Pug and the Flaming Lips and Amy Cook and the Flaming Lips and
Animal Collective and the Flaming Lips and Wilco and the Flaming Lips and
String Cheese Incident and the Flaming Lips and Jeff Mangum and the
Flaming Lips and Daniel Johnston and the Flaming Lips and Tyler, the Creator
and the Flaming Lips Flaming Lips Flaming Lips…
I’d be dead by now. When I don’t have people, I have music. It keeps me
sane. When I feel like no one I know understands me, there is always a song
to play that speaks the thoughts in my head or the feelings of my heart. I
love it. I love and appreciate them all for at some time being able to describe
my insides with their instruments and lyrics. Like saying, “Hey, it really is
going to be okay,” when no one else could say it. But it seems like there is
no one better at it than the Flaming Lips. Wayne’s words have matched my
thoughts better than any other in my life. There are often times I find myself
thinking things the people I know would never consider or at least be able to
verbalize. There have been a few times I’ve tried to explain some new idea
that pops into my head, but in order to get to a new thought with me, you
kind of have to get through all the other thoughts in order to understand it if
you don’t already think the way that I do. And the train of thoughts leading
up to a new thought is literally this book so catching someone up to a new
idea has been damn near impossible. I find myself getting my thoughts
further and further away from people and it sucks because I need people.
But I manage to make it through these dark, winding roads to nowhere by
listening to the space rock that is the Flaming Lips because I can hear him
sing about the thoughts I’ve had and it makes me feel all right knowing that
even if I don’t know anyone who thinks the way that I do, at least Wayne
Coyne has.
When I get lost alone in Lolly Land, the only light I have are the sounds of
like-minded matter of madness. What is the Light that you have?
I think it would be fun to make music but I don’t think it would be as fun to
do alone. I mean, I think everything is better with people. We’re all in this
together. I’d like to make something of it. I love to sing, I love to write, but
that’s as far as I go. I know so many talented musicians but I can’t seem to
get any of them to want to make music with me. Maybe I’m not assertive
enough, but I guess I have pretty bad stage fright. Ha, right? I have
confidence in my words but I do not have confidence in my voice. I love it,
though. I love to sing. I love to jam but I don’t play anything that jams except
me but I like jammin’ with people but I got no people to jam with so I’m not
jammin’.
Hey dude, wanna jam?
Probably not because I probably suck even though some people say they like
the way I sing. They think it’s good or whatever. I can write a sick ass rap
verse, too, but I ain’t gotta beat. Plus, the journals I write said verses in get
taken or lost. Most people tell me I should be a ghostwriter. I guess I could
sell my songs for money or whatever but then they aren’t really mine and I
put a lot of me into the things I write. It’s wasted poetry. I’d be selling my
soul and probably my persona as well. A perceived persona, anyway. I am
what I am and that’s all I can be. It almost seems like the only people that
want to help me out are the dudes that want to fuck me.
I am too many things for me to handle and all the colours that you see. Or
maybe I’m nothing. Maybe I am just a waitress, doomed to hop from floor to
floor the rest of my tiring life. Maybe I should jump on a pole while I still can.
I mean, if all I am to anyone is sex, I might as well make money off of it.
Beats working my body into a pulp for minimum wage. Want me to take my
clothes off? Fuck it, gimme a dollar or two and you can see my tits. Who
hasn’t seen ‘em, anyway? Maybe I’ll snap like so many of them do. Maybe
someday, I’ll buy myself a dick and become the Man.
Maybe, I will lose all fucking hope, if that’s what you think I should do.
Because my hope is in you and if you are telling me not to have hope in you
or faith humanity, then, well…
Maybe I should shut up and kill myself already.
The happily haunted could easily be happily haunting.
Or I could be the happily haunted happily hunting…
No. Not deer, dumbass.
Or, seriously, maybe I should stop bitching and get in the line everyone else
is standing in.
I don’t want to have to give up but I am so close to giving up. I can’t figure
out why I suddenly can’t care about anything at all. I have spent so much of
my time believing in everything and loving every second and now I’m
smoking cigarettes and driving recklessly and not even efficient in words
anymore. And I don’t know why because I prefer to love everything. I
suppose I’m becoming everyone. Or I am going to fall in line. I’m starting to
lose faith in dreams because I am falling behind even in falling in line or
immobile and free falling down a rabbit hole of ideas. No matter what I do
and I’m so fucking lost. How have I gotten so lost?
I think if you ran this course, you’d be pretty lost, too.
I have approximately six months before my life explodes and starts over
again. And again. And again. I can’t say it would faze me if the world did the
same, though I do think it would be a damn shame. I suppose this is my
attempt to change the way things are, even if that sounds like an impossible,
silly task. I can’t seem to function properly to fit as a piece in this puzzlingly
society, so maybe I shouldn’t be a part of it. I’m okay with that. If I am alive
to speak and no one wants to hear what I have to say, then I’ll go. No hard
feelings. I’m kind of a cunt. I’d rather be a bitch than a pussy; but I’d rather
be a cunt than a bitch.
(Hey, girls. If you want dudes to stop making you feel like shit, stop allowing
them to do it. Is there a word you can call a man and offend him? No. He
doesn’t care what you call him. Most of the time, it’s true. So why let
something he says offend you? So he calls you a cunt. Shit, maybe you’re
being a cunt. That more than likely means you were speaking your mind or
said something really fucking cold. Either you were holding your own or said
something really funny. Come on. Wouldn’t you rather be a well-respected,
well-versed, well-educated cunt than a spineless, mindless pussy-bitch?)
Everyone tells you things change and people change and life will change but
it all seems too familiar. I am who I have always been and yet I no longer
exist in the life that I once had and continues. It seems like I keep finding
myself in the same situations I have already been in but with different
people, or I watch people get into the situations I’ve been in. I’ve taken
everyone’s advice and now I’m in the middle of nowhere. People try to tell
me what life is or what it’s like or what the fuck ever “they” say and it seem
like it’s all a bunch of bullshit to keep us living in a vicious cycle that slowly
wears us down.
I just want to break the cycle. I’ve gotten a pretty damn good idea of what is
going on because I’ve not stopped pay attention to detail since I left my
mother’s fucking womb.
Ew. I just said my mother’s fucking womb and I mean my mother’s cuss word
womb but wow, is that a disturbing phrase…
People don’t want to believe anything I say. I’m some twenty-year-old girl,
what the fuck do I know? Well. I don’t. But what do you know that’s any
better? What is the use for knowledge when we don’t know what reality is? In
which case, what is the point of putting value to any of it? The way I see it—
put in the simple terms I have ever thought it in—is that I’m a human being
and as a human being, the most important thing in my life is life itself. The
only thing I know is that I am here. I am what we consider to be alive, though
we don’t even know that much! We created this world ourselves. I think it’s
pretty impressive. Of course, we don’t know the origins of the story books we
refer to as text. But I suppose now we have made it impossible to lie about
history. That is a very interesting thought. We can now keep track of
absolutely everything that happens.
“We have the technology.”
We have created a system with our grand ability of invention. I appreciate
the absolute pleasure I indulge in on a day-to-day basis. It would be hard to
go without all of my possessions, though I would be willing to try. That’s
more than most people will say. People are obsessed with their possessions.
They love money. They love the things money can buy. They love the
technology behind the money they spend and vice versa. They love their
stuff. And as much fun as it all is; as cool of an experience as it is to have an
endless supply of things for every thought and desire I could possibly
imagine; at the end of the day, I don’t really care.
If I don’t have people to enjoy these things with, what is the point of them?
If all there is to life is being alive, then I don’t want to enjoy things to myself.
I want to enjoy life. Isn’t that why America was created? And what better way
to enjoy life than to enjoy it with other life? I guess if the most important
thing to me is my life, the most important thing to my life is other lives. If my
life is the most valuable possession to me, why wouldn’t your life be your
most valuable possession to me? I don’t know, there’s nothing more I can
appreciate than my life.
LOL FUCK MY LIFE LY
I want to cry. Sometimes, I get lost, but I always come back. Always. I don’t
really have a choice. I have too much life to live to get thrown into a box I
cannot escape. But this is why I want to give up. Am I coming back just to
get more fucked up on it while everyone gets fucked up on drugs? If that’s all
I’m going to come back to every time, then why do I still come back? You
would think that if I was simple enough to love life more than anything on
the planet, I would be happy with just being alive. I guess I am. For now. I do
love the nights I have with the homeboys. It’s something I can live for. It’s
something I do live for, or one of those reasons I’m still alive.
Why?
People, man. People! I love being around people who can hold a conversation
with their beer. I’m so sick of drunken drama, it’s unreal. I’m so sick of
people’s favourite thing being alcohol or whatever other fucking vice or
phone or car or god damn. I’m so sick of people caring about the stupidest
fucking bullshit that I barely cared about as a teenager. Or even a child. No
matter what I’ve done in life, the answer to every puzzle I have ever come
across is people.
But it usually goes,
1. “My Self”
2. “My Shit”
3. “My Slut”
4. “Maybe you”
Yes, I’m a hoarder, but it’s because I love people and think Toy Story is like,
the greatest trilogy ever made. But when people leave, I still have the stuff
they gave me. Or things that remind them of me. And I don’t like to waste
like everyone else does. I save things because I don’t like how much trash
we have produced, and I’d rather not contribute to it. Though it is just sitting
in trash piles in my room rather than a landfill or whatever so it doesn’t
really even matter, right? I always thought it would be cool to reuse the stuff
I have, but the amount of stuff v. space for stuff makes being an object artist
very difficult. If only I had a space, I could just put all my things to use again,
I dream. Or I could even be a real Hattress if I had the room! But I’m trapped
in my room with my stuff because space costs bucks I ain’t got. It’s a fuckin’
suck but I guess it doesn’t really matter because life is going to continue to
go on as is, anyway, and any feeble attempt I have at saving or changing
anything is astronomically stacked against me.
But here I am writing a book about trying. Isn’t anyone else willing to try? Or
no? If it’s no, please tell me so. I don’t want to put in anymore effort if no one
else wants to put in effort. I’d like to spend as much time as possible on this
planet and enjoy this wondrous, mysterious thing that is our lives but if none
of you are going to give a shit about the planet part, how much can I give a
shit about you who come from it and can’t respect it, much like women in
general? How am I gonna stand around and give respect that doesn’t seem
to exist in your society? Fuck that and fuck you. I hope you do blow up.
But then if you don’t, maybe I can get some land and just collect those few
people in the world that do have some respect. If I could be on this planet
away from all the bullshit, I’d be okay with the bullshit. Like a commune, you
know? I’d be okay with that. But being stuck in the middle of all the bullshit
is deteriorating my brain at a deadly rate. Deadly, bitch. You feel me?
So I find people really aren’t that great because I’m all about them. I’m not
saying I’m totally obsessed with everyone I meet and people should be
totally obsessed with me when they meet me. I read people in thirty
seconds. I know them in five minutes. I know if I want to waste anymore time
talking to them in twenty. I know what I like and I know how to tell if you are
what I like. What I like are people who like the same things I do, such as
people or brains or books or music or ideas or whatever. You don’t have to
have identical taste or the same exact thoughts, but have thoughts. If you
love any band as much as I love the Flaming Lips, I’ll give it a listen.
If you love anything like I love Everything, you are worth loving. Problem is,
most people don’t.
I’m so lonely without people to love but no one wants me to love them
because people don’t know how to interpret a love like mine when they have
grown not to love after being told it isn’t real just because heartbreak co-
exists with love.
God, I’m sorry I saw love at first sight. Boy, is it a sight to see. It was the
most beautiful thing I’ve ever looked at and the best thing I have ever felt. I
chased love right off a cliff and into your bed.
But what did you do?
Kick me out of your bed.
OUUUUUCH! Back at rock bottom? Startin’ to feel like home. Who wants
to join me? No one, but that doesn’t mean they won’t end up there, anyway.
I look around and I see so many lonely people. Or people who aren’t alone
but are so unhappy with who they are with they would rather just be alone.
Hey! I’m right here and you’re over there and our whole world is standing in front of me, begging me to do something and I’m not. I’m just waiting. And for what? You to kick me in the teeth again? Things seem to get better but then they seem to go nowhere. What is keeping me? Why do I still care so fucking much? And why is he the only one that doesn’t care about me? Why am I the only one he doesn’t care about? I’m not myself these days, I’m not myself, I’m not. I’m on an island. Alone except
for the occasional tourist visit. And why? For what? I could go home with them, but I don’t in hopes that you’ll come find me. I’m calling loudly, clearly. Just for you. I’m here for you! I’m here to help and be something to everyone but I am here, I was made for you. I’m at a great loss. I have suffered the greatest loss. Yours. Ours.
I’m just trying to help the hurting because I know what it is like to hurt and I
know I would have liked some but no one else seems to think this way so I’m
just swimmin’.
I’m swimming and searching.
I was swimming and wandering but now I’m swimming and searching. I
didn’t need to be anywhere but here, wherever I was, for a long time. It could
have been anything with anyone and I was either dealing or content. Now, I
just wish there was a place for me to land. I wish there was anywhere I
belonged. Somewhere I could do as I please and say what I want without
being thrown out or turned away. I’m searching for something that doesn’t
seem to exist. I am meant to be alone. Forever. Sometimes, I think I don’t
even deserve cats because I’ve pushed so many away already.
If I live for people and people don’t care that I’m alive, that’s fine. I don’t
have to be alive. I got too much going on in this head, though, to get through
this alone. And on top of my life feeling like an endless pile of shit, I really
can’t stand the shit that I see. It is baffling to me that people can be so
sorely selfish. Goddamn. So many people ignore what they feel and
substitute it with a substance. They would rather ignore and deny the life
that happens before them and live instead content with nothing. With
working enough to get by and be able to buy their barricade of choice. Why
deny the life happening before you?
I seriously give up. I don’t know what else to do. I feel like I’m one of the only
people left on the planet that isn’t completely selfish. Or am I the most
selfish?! I try so hard to be as considerate as possible of other people, but
whoever it is that I consider is usually out to fuck me or ends up fucking me,
anyway. I’m really sick of trying to do the right thing—like care about
anything or be honest about everything—and being treated like I’m the
biggest bitch in the entire Universe. I’m not a bitch. My heart is in its right
place. But so many people have been so mean and so cold that I feel like I
have to be a bitch to stay alive. All I want is for people to be happy without
hurting others because more often than not, I’m the one being hurt. It hurts
to live here. I feel like I might not be the only one, but maybe the only one
with the courage to say it out loud.
Nothing I do has intent, but I have good intentions. I want to make people
happy even when I’m not happy because I guess it sort of makes me happy
and I just really don’t see the point in life if we aren’t happy. Why be alive if
you don’t really enjoy it? I don’t see a point to it and yet we’re all doing it. I
don’t want everyone to die or anything, but I would love to see some change
in something, even if it is just attitude.
Maybe I don’t need to eat until I want to throw up. Perhaps we can share this
meal. You never know who might be starving.
Maybe I won’t flick this guy off even though he cut me off. I’ve probably done
it before. You never know where they could be going.
Maybe I shouldn’t see him ever again. My life is probably better off without
him. You never know who might be waiting.
Maybe I was wrong. Perhaps someone can make things rights. You never
know what you could be helping.
I’d like to make things right. I’d like to make things right with everyone I
have wronged. I’d like to make things right in the world, even if it does seem
like an impossible task. I can’t help but believe anything is possible due to all
the improbability that has become my life.
I can’t figure out what I’ve done so wrong in my life. Or what is so wrong
about me. I don’t understand how I get from place to place when I don’t try
to go anywhere except the places I never end up. Why is that? What is wrong
with me? How is it that I cannot seem to keep anyone within arm’s length?
Within my head? All I ask is for another human being. I have been
surrounded by robots for too long. I don’t get along with robots. I need souls.
I need people that have souls. Not robots. I need someone who will
understand that sometimes, I need visits in Lolly Land. No one wants to be in
Lolly Land. I don’t even want to be there. But I’m stuck here. And on
occasion, it gets really busy and there’s too much activity to not be shared
with someone. It’s a lot for any one person. I’m one person. I’m a mermaid
that lives in the sea, swimming from one rock to the next island and so on.
So on and so far I go, deeper than anyone can swim without a fin. It’s hard to
breathe underwater. I live in the ocean. Many get the impression that I think
I’m above everyone. They think I’m up high in the sky, soaring. I wish. I only
wish I had wings. I only wish I could get out of this cold water.
My mind has fallen into retirement. There is a child-like whimsy that exists in
my Lolly heart but there is so much pain in my Roxy head. My body, clearly,
cannot be more than twenty because that’s how long it has been around. But
my mind, it’s in retirement. I have finished life. What now? A new one? I go in
hopes to find something greater to do with my time than sit around and not
be just unappreciated but begin to depreciate. There is no point in staying
where I am. I never belonged here and I know it because I should be
elsewhere. And I hope I’ll get there.
Sometimes, it is hard to be friends with people who want to see me as a
friend but should see me as a therapist. It is hard to convince anyone that I
am the therapist they should see. In fact, it’s hard to convince people I’m a
therapist. My formal education extends one year into community college
where I received no degrees or certification. I am not backed by society or
sponsored by The Man. I have no training to do this job and no one has ever
told me how it is supposed to be done. In fact, I’ve never even seen a
therapist myself. So why the fuck should I and DO I think I make a better
therapist than most the people you give your money to?
Life. Can you believe it?
We are all created equally but we are not all the same. As human beings, we
are the same. We are made of the same matter, the same consciousness; we
are of one science and one spirit. We are all the same, in essence, but we
vary from form to form. What separates us from other animals is what in turn
separates us from ourselves. We have brains that are capable of cognitive
thinking so we have presumed a position at the top of the pyramid. We have
created a world of our own. I suppose, in ways, other animals have done the
same. A beaver’s dam isn’t man-made, but I’ll be damned if a man didn’t
make one bigger. We have conquered a good portion of the land on this
planet. We have made it very clear to everyone around us what belongs to
humans and what belongs to the rest of nature. In a way, we have isolated
ourselves from the world beneath our feet while remaining on this planet.
Why?
I guess people get bored. People see the world in front of them equipped
with an ego because pause:
Everyone has an ego. The sizes of our egos vary, which is why there is such
a variety in the human race, but everyone has one. It is our consciousness. It
is what makes us human. Those whose egos are too big are the reason it has
a negative connotation, but brains contain egos, as they also contain
superegos and ids.
And for some reason, they feel a need to explore it. We have, as man,
conquered this land. As time went on and most of the land had been explore,
we decided where we wanted to settle. Long story short, the moving out was
over and the building up was to begin. Now, we have gone everywhere we
can as man tied to a planet by a force called gravity. We have conquered the
land, ventured the sea, flew in the air, and reached the moon.
Ha ha.
We have nowhere left to go but to start over but with something we have
created, such as technology. We have nothing left to do on Earth because
we’ve conquered it, but we’re still here.
Sort of waiting to die.
Killing ourselves slowly, actually.
Why?
Because we have nothing to do.
We keep the people occupied with phones that are smarter than them,
television made for advertisement disguised as entertainment, radio that
plays the same set lists of songs over and over and over again. Who is
making these decisions and why don’t people want to make them for
themselves? How have people become so dependent on something that, in
certain ways, doesn’t really exist? I suppose technology is technically
(ironically) energy manifested into matter for various purposes. But our
purposes for this purpose are becoming purposeless. We have little else to
do with it. We have attacked all senses with the media. We are raised as
citizens of this country to accept things the way they come and not question
anything else.
We are all given the same books to read.
But you know, I get it. Even though I’ll read just about anything you put in
front of me, I understand why not everyone is that way. Because we are all
different, we are good and bad at different things. It is such a simple concept
to grasp and yet has escaped us for such time. Instead of trying to force us
all to be the same—to have the same education, to do the same jobs, have
the same opinions, live the same lives—why don’t we encourage each
person to just be themselves instead of trying to be what everyone else
appears to be? Why don’t we read the books we want to read? Why must we
deny a child enjoyment in what they do? Why does education have to be a
punishment? Instead of telling a child they are wrong for having an opinion,
why don’t we hear them out? Why can’t compromises be made? Instead of
being mad that the kid doesn’t want to do what you asked it to, find out what
exactly the kid does want to do. Instead of making it feel like an idiot for not
being able to be interested in something it cannot comprehend, why not
encourage the child to find something that does? Why must we deny
personal freedoms in a country founded on the idea itself? Why can we not
choose for ourselves how we would like to spend our own time? Why are we
not in charge of the life we live?
It seems as though maybe the creation of formal education was originally
intended to level the playing field, so to speak. If you think about it from a
standpoint of innocence, giving everyone the same information would
therein give each person with said education an equal opportunity to make
something of themselves based on what they are taught. In theory, of
course. In reality, it does not always work out the way you want it to. Instead
of growing to learn we are all of the same species and therefore equal, we
are quick to recognize our differences. We have a tendency to find and
expose the flaws of others to make ourselves feel more at peace with our
own flaws. It is elementary behavior, but that is what sticks to us most. The
early years of development are most crucial to life. Instead of making
children feel bad about themselves for what they may be incapable—or even
just less capable than others—of, they should be praised for the things they
can do. If instead of trying to force every individual to be the same person,
we should encourage people to be themselves.
Like. If you give a mouse a cookie, but books aren’t made of sugar. But if you
got to choose the book you got, wouldn’t you be more inclined to read that
book? Wouldn’t that be a more encouraging way to teach a child? When they
are young, they have a short attention span. You can’t make them
concentrate any longer than they are able to. Even if you force them to
listen, it doesn’t mean they are going to absorb any of the things you tell
them. Let them go at their own pace. Maybe it is just Lolly LOLing about
everything running on Lolly Time. I mean, I seem to have gotten everywhere
I’ve ever needed to be exactly when I need to be there.
Where are you and when are you gonna get here?
Ordinary people have the capability to do very extraordinary things. We are
all equal, no matter the little things that make us think otherwise. As long as
you try, you succeed. People spit that shit at you your whole life and it
sounds stupid and cheesy, but it’s true. The brain is the most powerful tool
on the planet. If you want something, it is yours! You just have to really
believe you have it.
What you never understood is that everything happens for a reason. Yes, it
all works out in the end. If you never get anywhere but your grave, I’m sorry
you didn’t live life to the best of your ability. You think you’ve ruined my life
but you made it happen. I hate you so much but I must thank you for what
you’ve done to destroy me.
It seems as though the Grateful Dead was right in saying American Beauty is
American Reality. From finding Box of Rain on a Classics disc to having a
friend that is a friend of the Devil—can you imagine knowing someone who
killed someone you know and knowing he was headed straight to Hell? That’s
what I call a friend of the Devil, anyway. And yes, he is a friend of mine.
Some of my friends are dead. Whatever, it’s always good to know someone
in another dimension has my back. After all of it, I still have my Sugar
Magnolias… So long as the Candyman don’t take them away…
I am a cracked rock (not a crack rock) that has hit rock bottom, but a Ripple
has been left in the water. If I can rock the boats of those who float along to
what life sends their way—if I could make them look at the water and
question the tide, I will feel okay. If I could give my life and their Deaths a
purpose, it would make sleeping at night much easier. My life has been
melodramatic and terribly tragic and it has been worth every second
because it has created the person who can put these thoughts together
today, but it was not easy. I want to ease the minds’ of those who question
things. I want to tell them they are not alone. The things that happen to us
can make us who we are if we don’t become them. Never forget but don’t
always remember. Skeletons in a closet; Attics of my Life.
What can I say? You flew to me. Even though I think I can predict the way
this story ends, it isn’t set in stone until it’s over. Yes, it has been a long,
strange trip. Even though it’s when the album ends, and all you have to look
forward to is doing it again, you have to keep Truckin’. That’s the best advice
Jerry Garcia had, anyway. And so far, no one has given me better. The
Grateful Dead told the trivial trials and errors of your average rebellious
youth in America in one poetically written and beautifully composed eleven-
song story. It contains more heart, soul, and honesty about the cycle of life,
love, and death than any other musician could produce in a century-long
career.
Even if I am just the Brokedown Palace… Operators standing by…
Though my life is much more a Battle against Pink Robots. And when I look
at her, I see the American Beauty.
It is really strange the way things happen. I have grown to refuse
Coincidence as a possibility.
But who knows? I could be as wrong as anyone. Or I could be right.
Which would mean my fore-fathers and mothers were right, too.
Or I’ll see them in Hell if Heaven doesn’t take us.
Catholic school made me a good person. Public school taught me to do bad
things.
Do bad things make me a bad person?
What makes a person good?
I think I am a good person that does bad things.
I think the only thing you need to do to be a good person is to be good to
people.
How does one be good to another?
Put them first. Give them what they want. Make their smile more important
than yours. And hope that time spent on this person will in turn encourage
them to do the same, even if it’s not for you and it’s for someone else. If you
are good to them, they will be good to someone else. And if they are good to
someone else, you were good to that someone else, too, right?
That’s my whole purpose. Just trying to help out. Sorry if I’m not helping.
Isn’t it the thought that counts? No, because people don’t appreciate
anything, let alone though. Oh, well. Fuck ‘em all. Oh, not you, Boys. Y’all
know.
Are there any good people left in the world who don’t want to get fucked up
and fuck shit up? Or do I fucking complain too much? Am I just desperate, or
do I have merit?
I want to rebuild, not destroy.
All in all, I wish people were more conscious of each other and our Mother.
We’ve “conquered” Earth. Let’s explore space!
There is no fucking hope left for planet Earth. I think if nothing else, that is
really what the end of the world is. It is the day in which we become
absolutely hopeless. We have done fucked up 2000 years’ worth of time.
2000 years we had to figure our shit out. Or, 2000 of our years; 2000 Jesus
years. That should be enough time, shouldn’t it?
I have mad respect for Jesus. By dying on the cross, he showed the love he
had for everyone. That’s cool. All I’m doing is writing a book, not sacrificing
my life (unless EVERYONE that reads this is going to tell me to kill myself—
don’t worry, guys. I know the Team is not going to let me kill myself.) I didn’t
mean to actually compare myself to Jesus just then. I didn’t mean that at all.
I’m just saying, I got some fuckin’ Jesus love for y’all.
Religion is so funny to me. But I’m not making fun of your religion. You
believe what you believe and I’ll believe what I believe. That’s exactly what I
find so funny about religion, though. People use brute force and utter
violence to promote their life of “peace”. They basically break all their own
rules to get people to do as they say because they believe they are right.
What is the point in that? If anything, you look more wrong by doing wrong
unto me. Truly, the only rule we need to live by as human beings is “Do No
Harm To Others” and all the rest will follow. We wouldn’t need people to tell
us what decisions to make if we could whole-heartedly love one another
enough to not wish any ill of anyone. Having laws just gives the balance of
good and evil that should co-exist teams for battle. What is this battle for?
We’re already touching ourselves.
We don’t have anything left to fight for. Everyone is divided up and walled
off. What is there left to do? Throw bombs from our barricades? What are
you, children? Are you fucking serious? We have the capability to charge and
run our society with the sun’s energy for the rest of existence but instead of
giving everyone the ability to do that, you are taking our hard-earned money
to fund a war over oil that we have already proven to ourselves we don’t
need? But you think I’m some dumb fucking hippie, right?
I’m just letting you know what I have going on in my head. I’ve heard general
statements from all parties and have experienced some of them first hand. I
don’t think I can say that anyone is wrong because there has been some
aspect of every last one of you I’ve liked enough to believe. However, it’s all
the political bullshit most of these beliefs are covered in that I just can’t get
down with. The use of force must stop. No matter what you think you know,
let it go. You can’t force anything upon anyone. You know what that did? It
created two kinds of people in the world:
1. Good people
2. Bad people
Here’s the problem with that:
1. It’s not true.
I think there are good people who do bad things and bad people who do
good things, but it is not as simple as good and bad. There’s black in the
white and white in the black!! But instead of giving people the benefit of the
doubt or the chance to prove it, we assume a person is simply one or the
other. This has resulted in two extremes:
1. People who are willing to try anything
2. People who are not willing to try
Hey, man. Stop trying. I think that’s our biggest problem right there is that
we try too hard. We try too hard to look how we want; we try too hard to
impress people. We try too hard to be perfect; we try too hard to hide that
we’re not. We try too hard to unite; we try too hard to win. Maybe if we
didn’t try so damn hard, it would come to us. But in a way, we have to try
this hard because that’s how you obtain money to obtain everything else you
might want.
Fuck. We’re living Monopoly when we should really be playing the Game of
Life.
FUCKING WHY?
Do you think when the world ends someday it will have been worth it? Do
you think all the money in the world will matter when you are alone when
this world ends? When will you realize that it doesn’t fucking matter?
Time’s up, game’s over; you who shall live shall crumble.
And that’s according to your own rules! I’m not trying to win. I’m trying to
end the game. I don’t play games but if I have to win the game to end it,
game the fuck on. And I’m not really playing on God or Satan’s team. If
anything, I’m playing for the Humans. Like, everyone is bitching and freaking
out about the world becoming shit but they contribute to the standing
problems. Why are you complaining if you aren’t actually trying to do
anything but let it happen? Not caring and partying the rest of your
“numbered” days away? Are you stock-piling goods and gold for when there
aren’t other people to get it for you? Are you praying? Are you fucking
praying? For what? Can you actually pray for your sins to be absolved at the
last minute? And when the world doesn’t end, will you continue to sin? And if
you are forgiven for your sins in the end, why not sin? Plus, no matter who
you pray for, they don’t care what happens here. We’re only useful when
we’re dead.
So here I am asking you what you’re doing to fix the problems that we have
presented to ourselves. Maybe you’re curious as to what I’m doing, on
account of me asking you.
I don’t think the world is going to end anytime soon. But I do think something
might happen. There are plenty of things that could happen, and they could
happen at any time. I got some theories about the moon… All we can have
when all is gone is what we are. All that will be left when our materials are
abolished will be the energy we have been created of and the light that
shines upon it. Why do we even care about the material things? I like them, I
enjoy them, but man. We don’t NEED them! They say you don’t need
anything but yourself and that’s totally true because as long as you are here,
there is your reality. But what is the point of reality if it is you and only you?
LOL What am I even saying anymore?!?!?! LY
When it comes down to it, I guess I think people are angry and stupid and if
I’m refusing to be angry and stupid after all the anger and stupidity I’ve
witnessed, then you should refuse to be angry and stupid, too. We just need
love.
Does anyone have a better answer?
I only wanted your answer because the answer I came up with was love but
you said I was wrong. If I have the wrong answer, what is the right answer?
[Don’t blame the need for an answer on the drugs I’ve done. Blame it on the decade of Catholic schooling that taught me how to problem solve.]
I can’t come up with a better conclusion than to try and bring justice upon
our greatest injustices. I don’t see myself ever stopping my brain from doing
what it wants until I am stopped in my maddening tracks, but I don’t see
anyone stopping me. In fact, people just encourage me. So I am going to do
my best to change the world because I am so certain it is what I’m here to
do. It’s been bugging me for years and at no point in my life has that flame
blown out. No matter how blown or blown out I’ve been, I’ve always
remained pathetic about my problems because I knew I had bigger problems
to solve.
I don’t mean to sound ultra-pretentious, I am just trying to explain myself so
very dearly to you. I have put my Life in this book. I have given it all the
passion that pumps through my blood. I wrote these words with fire. I will be
sure my flaming lips will never die. After all, fire is light. Right?
You had a vision of the Flaming Lips. I had visions of you. And now
look at us.
I told you, I refuse to believe in coincidence.
I can’t see a better way to do what I’m here to do than with you. I’d like to
think I’m not naïve, I’m just positive. I choose see the best in everyone and I
know there are consequences to that because I’ve paid those consequences
on multiple occasions. I’ll see the best in you, too, no matter who you are. I’ll
let you take advantage of my loving heart as much as you want because it
doesn’t bother me all that much. It’s almost like I haven’t got anything better
to do than write this because I haven’t got much else going for me but my
words and I have enough words in my head for a book. Oh, even though
everyone wants to say it is impossible, I figured out the
EQUATION FOR PEACE: SMILE, LOVE, GIVE, JAM.
Well, that’s all I got. So… What now, Boys? What do I do now? What do you think?
I’d love to know what anyone thinks.
Does anyone think?
“When there was no dream to dream, you dreamed of me”
“All we’ve ever had is now”
My Life: The Joke That Makes You Laugh So Hard, It Hurts
LAUGH OUT LOUD
LOVE YOU
Last Paige. Bye.
“Together, more or less in line, just keep truckin’ on”