I find having a blog is like writing my number on a public toilet bathroom wall and hoping somebody calls me. What if nobody ever calls? Does anybody ever call those numbers? And what kind of freaky bastard will call?
Having a blog is like checking my messages to see if someone called me about a job. I questioned if someone believed my resume of lies. Will they give me money? And for how long?
Having a blog is like checking my comment page at five in the morning drunk to see if anyone likes me. It’s like Valentine’s day back in elementary. Usuallly the comments I get are like “you need to be institutionalized” or “please take you meds” or “this is Bank of America and we’re contacting you about a debt, please call us.” Those damn debt collectors are relentless. Don’t they get it by now, I’m never paying them.
So I was thinking as I posted comments on people pages I didn’t know, why people write on gas station bathroom walls in middle of Nowhere, Texas with a ballpoint pen, “I was here.” Did the person forget? And who carries the specific permanent marker for such graffiti: maybe a John Doe that’s afraid no one will miss him if he’s abducted by aliens. I think it’s because people just like to see themselves. Sometimes I comment on certain blogs just to see if that person will post it. They usually don’t.
The need to say “I was here” is as old as slavery. I was trapped on a toilet in the middle of Nowhere, Texas. I had some bad tuna and it desperately wanted out. On the toilet, I was in vertical birthing position so that my booty hole could aim correctly. And in that awkward Yoga move between explosive convulsions, my eyes wondered especially focus on the cracks of the bathroom stale hoping nobody came in like a relative or ex-lover or current lover or the newspaper or news team with cameras. As I cautiously watch the bathroom door, I couldn’t help but read the messages. Somebody was looking for a dick sucking around 5 in the evening on Sunday and left their phone number. Somebody didn’t like a certain gang. Somebody wanted to get fucked with an umbrella. And then it’s that ubiquitous, “I was here, 6-17-1997.” You suddenly feel not so alone that somebody was there in the same position. I just wanted the diarrhea to be over and try to get away with it
As I tiptoed out of the men’s bathroom hoping no one will follow me because it would dangerous. The stench I left behind like an aborted baby was strong enough that I was afraid it might be a misdemeanor. They got all kind of crazy laws in Texas.
A man walked in the bathroom right after me. He yelled at me “Man you need to get some fucking help!” I smiled coyly and said that wasn't. I ran for the nearest exit hoping to never see that bastard again.
Wednesday, October 1, 2008
The comeback kid
Usually I know it’s time to go back to the gym when older heterosexual women start looking at me like the witch in Hazel and Gretel. The girl at Popeye’s gives me an extra piece of chicken and biscuit as to fatten me up. The girl at the grocery store seems to hold my hand when she hands me my change because she likes the fullness in my face. I guess a fat man means safety. They assume I won’t stray. Or that I’m too fat to run without having to sit down. Why in sitcoms those really attractive women are married to really fat unattractive men? It’s a lie. It’s said the first sign that he is cheating is when he starts working out again or caring how he looks again.
It’s true. I got a Buddha booty. It’s when the stomach sticks out further than the booty. I hate starting over. And the gym never changes. I still feel like I’m in middle school. Those damn desk attendants and trainers feel like belligerent coaches judging my physical weakness. I throw like a girl. I can’t lift more than ten pounds. I don’t want one of those prison bodies. I want a Tarzan of the Jungle body like I’ve been swinging from trees. Yet, I have my father’s hips and my mama’s thighs.
Every time I go back to the gym I have to buy a new combination lock. I can’t never seem to remember the numbers, or if I should turn the knob to the right or left. So too many times because I don’t want to pay the fifty dollars it costs to have them break the damn thing, I place my ear firmly again the lock and try to see if I can break the code. I’m usually successful. I’m like some fat cat burglar.
At the gym I never feel l know what I’m doing. Everybody seems so serious about it. I’m afraid that I look like one of those chubby losers sweating like they just overdose on sugar donuts running on the treadmill. I afraid they others look at me like I should just give it up and that I’m ever going to be skinny. I chew on a king size snickers bar because it tastes better than those sports bar. I try to suck in my stomach but it makes my back hurt. Damnit I just want to be skinny. I just want to look good in a jock strap.
How do those white girls in Hollywood do it? I think I am bulimic. The problem is I can binge on the food but never throw it back up. I’m scared that like if I ate a large pizza and threw it back up I just might stick my head in the toilet bowl and try to recover that piece of pepperoni. It’s like a dog eating its own vomit. I do drink that much. I wasting food. Kids in Africa are starving.
It’s true. I got a Buddha booty. It’s when the stomach sticks out further than the booty. I hate starting over. And the gym never changes. I still feel like I’m in middle school. Those damn desk attendants and trainers feel like belligerent coaches judging my physical weakness. I throw like a girl. I can’t lift more than ten pounds. I don’t want one of those prison bodies. I want a Tarzan of the Jungle body like I’ve been swinging from trees. Yet, I have my father’s hips and my mama’s thighs.
Every time I go back to the gym I have to buy a new combination lock. I can’t never seem to remember the numbers, or if I should turn the knob to the right or left. So too many times because I don’t want to pay the fifty dollars it costs to have them break the damn thing, I place my ear firmly again the lock and try to see if I can break the code. I’m usually successful. I’m like some fat cat burglar.
At the gym I never feel l know what I’m doing. Everybody seems so serious about it. I’m afraid that I look like one of those chubby losers sweating like they just overdose on sugar donuts running on the treadmill. I afraid they others look at me like I should just give it up and that I’m ever going to be skinny. I chew on a king size snickers bar because it tastes better than those sports bar. I try to suck in my stomach but it makes my back hurt. Damnit I just want to be skinny. I just want to look good in a jock strap.
How do those white girls in Hollywood do it? I think I am bulimic. The problem is I can binge on the food but never throw it back up. I’m scared that like if I ate a large pizza and threw it back up I just might stick my head in the toilet bowl and try to recover that piece of pepperoni. It’s like a dog eating its own vomit. I do drink that much. I wasting food. Kids in Africa are starving.
“Don’t you know they shoot alcoholics down there?”
I was up one late night eating powder donuts and drinking tequila watching the movie “Mama Dearest” My first memory is that of wire hangers. My mama beat me with one because I took off my diaper and got shit everywhere. I was destined to be a Diva. In the movie Joan Crawford husband tells her, “When you were young and getting liquor up it was sexy. Now that you are old, you are just a drunk.” His words cut me like a knife. I just knew he was talking about me. It was mama beating me with the wire hanger all over again because I’d gotten shit all over my life. Babies and puppies are only cute when they are clean and not pissy or shitting over everything. Drunks are only cute when they are slutty easy college girls.
One of my good friends is obsessed with the A&E show “Intervention” It’s like how criminals are obsessed with the show Cops. It’s because some people are train wrecks that just need to be watched. I think he watches either to get tips of becoming a better addict or not to get caught. I just think Interventions are just rude.
Am I an alcoholic? I guess every addict asks that question. It’s like how my sister talks about girls who are more overweight than her like “she know she shouldn’t be wearing that.” In fact my sister once tried to pull off a cabwoman’s suit at size 22. She asked me if she looked fat. I replied do I drink too much. She said I didn’t. I told her she wasn’t fat. We were both happy for the time being. It’s like my life is fucked up but at least the children in Africa are still starving. Somebody is always worse. But when do you know that you’re at the end of pudding cup.
I think I watch that show Intervention because it’s like I’m not that damn gone. It’s like watching the show Cops and thinking you’re smarter than those idiots. I know not to run or hide in a dog house in the back yard when the cops are chasing me. I know I can’t outrun a police chase in a 1988 Ford Escort. Then again, I’ve never been in that situation. I’m sure it would cross my mind. \
And addicts are vain people. It’s like a sex tape. Nobody looks as good naked as those people in porn. It’s all in the lighting. It’s all faking. It’s all in the editing. It’s like why did David Hasselfhoff allow himself to be taped eating a hamburger. Did he think he was doing a Wendy’s commercial? I guess that’s why I’m an angry drunk. If I see a camera I’m breaking it like it’s the paparazzi and I’m Kanye West. I don’t want no damn evidence getting out. And I’m sure nobody wants to see my sex tapes. I’m terrible in bed.
On that show intervention, addicts, they love documenting their self destruction. It’s like a competition but nobody dies. I stopped going to AA meetings because I felt like a lightweight considering the hardcore drunks testimonies. There was one AA meeting where a man was pissing on himself in a corner. I guess the ghetto AA meeting are a little more hardcore. The gay AA meetings are more coherent have better bathrooms. It’s like the same drunks you see in a club but there’s no disco music. I never had the DT. I wasn’t hospitalized for “wet brain.” I had no desire to drink Listerine just because it had some alcohol. Some even drank shoe polish or rubbing alcohol. There was this one older man about eight five years old in a wheel chair and oxygen tank. He said he drank seventy years of his life. He said he’d been hospitalized so many times he stopped counting. I felt some comfort because I figured I had at least a good sixty years of drinking before the shit hits the fan.
Black people don’t go to rehab; they go to jail and then find Jesus. DMX is not in rehab. Tupac didn’t go to Rehab. Rick James went to jail.
One of my good friends is obsessed with the A&E show “Intervention” It’s like how criminals are obsessed with the show Cops. It’s because some people are train wrecks that just need to be watched. I think he watches either to get tips of becoming a better addict or not to get caught. I just think Interventions are just rude.
Am I an alcoholic? I guess every addict asks that question. It’s like how my sister talks about girls who are more overweight than her like “she know she shouldn’t be wearing that.” In fact my sister once tried to pull off a cabwoman’s suit at size 22. She asked me if she looked fat. I replied do I drink too much. She said I didn’t. I told her she wasn’t fat. We were both happy for the time being. It’s like my life is fucked up but at least the children in Africa are still starving. Somebody is always worse. But when do you know that you’re at the end of pudding cup.
I think I watch that show Intervention because it’s like I’m not that damn gone. It’s like watching the show Cops and thinking you’re smarter than those idiots. I know not to run or hide in a dog house in the back yard when the cops are chasing me. I know I can’t outrun a police chase in a 1988 Ford Escort. Then again, I’ve never been in that situation. I’m sure it would cross my mind. \
And addicts are vain people. It’s like a sex tape. Nobody looks as good naked as those people in porn. It’s all in the lighting. It’s all faking. It’s all in the editing. It’s like why did David Hasselfhoff allow himself to be taped eating a hamburger. Did he think he was doing a Wendy’s commercial? I guess that’s why I’m an angry drunk. If I see a camera I’m breaking it like it’s the paparazzi and I’m Kanye West. I don’t want no damn evidence getting out. And I’m sure nobody wants to see my sex tapes. I’m terrible in bed.
On that show intervention, addicts, they love documenting their self destruction. It’s like a competition but nobody dies. I stopped going to AA meetings because I felt like a lightweight considering the hardcore drunks testimonies. There was one AA meeting where a man was pissing on himself in a corner. I guess the ghetto AA meeting are a little more hardcore. The gay AA meetings are more coherent have better bathrooms. It’s like the same drunks you see in a club but there’s no disco music. I never had the DT. I wasn’t hospitalized for “wet brain.” I had no desire to drink Listerine just because it had some alcohol. Some even drank shoe polish or rubbing alcohol. There was this one older man about eight five years old in a wheel chair and oxygen tank. He said he drank seventy years of his life. He said he’d been hospitalized so many times he stopped counting. I felt some comfort because I figured I had at least a good sixty years of drinking before the shit hits the fan.
Black people don’t go to rehab; they go to jail and then find Jesus. DMX is not in rehab. Tupac didn’t go to Rehab. Rick James went to jail.
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