electric youth.
Today fucking sucks. i knew at exactly 10:15 pm last night, today was going to fucking suck. the normal nyc neighborly noise suddenly began to escalate to levels of intolerable. not intolerably loud, but intolerably uninteresting douche bag conversations. not what i want to be hearing from my neighbors. fucking and domestic disputes, im always game. old people partying to the finale of top chef – not so much. after- partying to celebrate the outcome of the finale of top chef – kill me now. yes, i should have done what i normally do, top chef or no top chef – get drunk at a nearby bar …but after 2 months of having my own personal set of slaves in china and still readjusting to the fast pace of having to walk up stairs and comb my own hair … i was spent. its 5 am . awake . still. if im going to go to work looking like shit , i at least want to be hung over …. or still drunk…or recovering from some sort of illegal surgery.
i walk to the subway. i sit on the subway. it isn’t until im in that air tight package of non freshness we call our metro system in NYC, that i realize i smell dog urine. not next to me, not in front of me, not above me. me. on me. i smell like dog urine. my jacket collar is marinated with the smell of dog urine. i become very insecure. the lady next to me begins talking to herself in some gibberish conspiracy theory bullshit. i feel better about myself. when she gets off i lean to the man next to me and say ” omg , did you smell that woman. dog urine. everywhere.”
i go to work nauseous from exhaustion. i tell everyone i think im pregnant just to fuck with them. they all laugh and say, “yeah right.”
yup, today fucking sucks.
you know what doesn’t suck, debbie gibson.
and my dad wanted me to play the trumpet. because that’s what he liked.
i first bought a white trumpet t-shirt from opening ceremony in LA several years ago. considering it was practically a piece of origami using cotton jersey in 4 color combinations, it was shockingly cheap at $110 USD. the entire line was incredibly well priced, considering the workmanship involved. i’ve charged more for garments made in mexico with fake YKK zippers. well, someone must have taught those kids at white trumpet a term called “margins” because the next season’s collection was showcased with price tags twice of what they were for their debut. absolutely worth every penny. especially considering i can’t even fold a piece of paper into an airplane , never mind 2 yds of modal and a passion for geometry.
grab your protractor and trumpet, let’s parade.
she only showered when it rained.
she hated showering. actually, she hated wasting time. the girl who was always on the go even if there was nowhere specific to be . there was no time to be in the shower. too much to do in there. waiting for the water to get hot. waiting for the body to get warm. lather. rinse. repeat. condition. adequate time to condition. shave. shave everywhere men dont have to shave. wash. rinse again. fear the cold on the other side of the shower curtain. dry off. dry hair. it’s already one fucking hour later and she could have walked across town by now. she steps out the door.
“hello world, here i am. squeaky-fucking-clean.”
it’s pouring rain. dirty, wet , fucking rain. she quickly mentally calculated all the time she could have saved if she had just walked outside in the rain with a bar of soap and a handful of shampoo … or a fucking umbrella.
for a land where rain and showers need not exist, let us pay tribute to the magical world of Zoobilee Zoo.
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