Aaahh! I had one of those Alice in Wonderland moments where I’m Alice and again I’m trying to make sense of everything around me, and nothing is making sense! And then I suddenly feel very young and naive, and things are overwhelmingly creepy and absurd all at once, and I’m unable to make everything I observe a rational, clear reality. Instead, I am being consumed, bit by bit, into this irrational construction of little creepy dreams, which are, in the end, all there is. Reality. So after a haircut and color from an old actor, I returned to my apartment and suddenly wondered why in all hell my New Yorker subscription seems to have been terminated, again I believe my mail has been confiscated by the old prick manager. The old writer of Hill St. Blues who sits and smokes like an old bump on a log in front of his blaring TV every day. I haven’t seen him in months. Caught in a spontaneous call to action, as usual, I stormed down the creaky vintage elevator to the first floor and pounded on his door, and as he again ignored the knocks, and it was slightly ajar, I opened it and my eyes widened like a frightened little girls because there, in a small portable hospital bed in front of the TV was Ken, the old writer manager, but he was about half the size I remembered him, laying in a little heap of bones, with large glasses, and tubes coming out of his nose. I immediately shut the door and my skin felt like it withered, and my fingers were trembling, and my breath was caught in my froggy sore throat. And I felt like a little shithead, like Alice, understanding nothing about this bizarre world, where nonsensical things happen everywhere, and crazy people follow you in the morning before you have even consumed a cup of coffee to take it all in…and the old charming man who sold the beautiful art deco room you’re now inhabiting and nit-picking at, is now lying half-dead in a hospital bed, and you nearly accused him of stealing your New Yorker. Good job, idiot girl.
Tag Archives: art deco
I had a nightmare in my head that Oregon was going to start carrying sales tax but it was immediately relieved by a joke to self brought on after another unreasonable shopping spree before class: “You could never kill ourself cuz you have too many cute outfits in your closet yet to be worn!” With all of the shit brewing in the world I feel like a selfish jerk (aka, Supercilious asshole-bastard, aka. Stalin-Palin devil baby). Do you know who would take the cake for selfish bastards? (but he is an android so therefore disqualified from any criticisms placed on human character)…my apartment complex owner. Here I have a beautiful studio, art deco, colored tiles in the kitchen and bathroom, a vintage, goth chandelier, and detailed windows, hard wood floors, but then the owner is probably a trust fund baby born into wealth with the brain of a PC computer chip, and the heart of a Sears appliance. I think he may actually be an android, but if he’s not, then the way he refused to shake my hand in our first acquiantance, and the way he rudely brushed off J when he once called to explain a starving kitten was deserted in the basement, not to mention the way he yelled at me over the phone the other day when I said it was his responsibility to fix the heater, and then hung up with I yelled back….well, because of all of these things he is a terrible, stodgy, plodding branding iron, and I want to toss him in a junkyard, and believe I might have to relinquish my home, (my handsome old lady home that won me honor through a DVD representation in my architecture class, and captivated friends with its classy, carnivalesque charms), for the sake of my sanity. Being ignored by coworker/exboyfriend whom I still masochistically pine for is bad enough, I am finding androidish behavior more prevalent these days, maybe I incite it with my unnatural naturalness, in which I say what’s on my mind, or maybe it’s the information age, and globalization making the world a hot bed of tech-dependent diapered dorks. I think if the Apocalypse is on its way, I have no other point in my ramblings then that I need to start getting laid more, listening to more hip-hop, and somehow get a car for Sunday trips to the coast and little Oregon towns with deserted barns and haunted hotels for photo projects. My other point was that selfish bastards suck, and I apologize for being one when I am one, because I know I sometimes am one.