Thursday, August 21, 2003

Avoidance Ain't Just A River in Kmet

A shout out to my buddy Rain, who scared me into a good mood this morning. Two snaps up in the Z formation.

The game is afoot in the White Trash Moulin Rouge. My new neighbor is masquerading as a carpenter but in Real Life, I think he’s a drug dealer. Each time I walk past his apartment, the smell of cheap grocery store incense (Strawberry, no doubt though once in a head shop I saw incense labeled “Pussy”. I’m rather intrigued by that. I wonder if people burn it when they’re rubbing one out staring at cheap internet porn? Certainly, this guy is the type: sweaty, vacuous, and lives alone) inches out of the bottom of his door, doing a very poor job of masking the copious amounts of ganja with which he is no doubt rocking the night away. Personally, I don't care if he's drug dealer. I encourage people to use drugs if it makes them easier to deal with. I used to live with drug dealers. Trust me, some people are much better off stoned. It's the people that come to buy the drugs. They're not nice. No, not at all.

My landlord came by tonight. I rarely see him, mostly because I try to avoid him at all costs. He stares at my tits, not in the furtive, not trying to notice kind of way that most men do but with great relish and enthusiasm. Usually, our conversations end with my arms wrapped around my torso straight jacket style trying to keep the ‘ladies’ hidden. “C’mon,’ I’m thinking, “They can’t be THAT great.” Who am I fooling? They truly ARE that great. No reason to open season on the poor gals though. He creeps me out on that level of course, but there’s something truly disturbing about a man who looks just like Santa Claus with a whiskey bloom in the center of his face that reminds me of those Los Alamos films from the Cold War. Anyway, he handed me a piece of paper that instructed all of us to lock up tight and hold down the fort since my neighbor got burgled last night. This severely cramps my style of late. I was in self-imposed exile for quite a while and I am kind of liking getting out. And my poor neighbor Isaac, the guy who does summer stock in New York every year. He has to come back knowing that some asshole turned his hard earned stuff into ill gotten gains.

Crime outside of prostitution and the occasional fight or two on my street is rare. I’m actually very shocked that it happened. Then again, this does offer me quite an opportunity. I’ve been very, very pissed off at the world, hence the exile. Stayed at home for a few days doing nothing but writing and listening to Freedy Johnston's "Bad Reputation" which is my new theme song. Things are pretty much going my way except for the financial struggle that most students must endure from time to time. This is different though. I got played and played hard. I got pissed because I knew deep down I was getting played but I like to give people chances when they’re sad and down on their luck. Turns out that what I suspected was pretty much true. Often times, when people are sad and down on their luck, they’re seeking a shoulder not to cry on, but to step on to get to the next rung on their ladder. This is the story of the hen, who asked all the farm animals for help planting the seeds, sowing the fields, and harvesting the wheat. When the hard times were upon her, the other animals turned the other hoof. When it was time to eat the bread though, they were sharpening their butter knives.

All this comes down to two things for me: If it looks like a dog, yada yada. The new neighbor really looks like a dog, too. I’m not kidding. And not a cute dog, because no one loves dogs more than I do. A vile, horrid dog he is and a horrid, vile dog is he. He’s not a low down, dirty dog, like the playa I was telling you about. Don’t know which one I’d rather see groveling with my six inch stiletto up his ass. Life’s full of tough choices. I can roll with the punches.

The second thing is the burning hope that some asshole tries to fuck up my scene with burglary or some such shit. I’m really pissed off right now and a lady like me, with the mood I’m in, with a history of a not-so-stable state of mind yearns for only two words: Probable Cause.

Oh please please, please Lord, when’s goin’ be my time?