Throw Up
Throw Up
Once upon a time, you could rent one of these peeling shophouses for a dime or less. It’s cockroach infested and smells of stale air and ratshit, floorboards damp and cracking under your feet. The walls are thin, crumbling into their foundations and they could use something to lean on, a ghost or a friend or you. The only consolation is the sunlight of morning through the wide square of scenery (and the sunlight only gets in because the wood is hanging off the hinges, might drop any second and then you can’t stop the sunlight anymore).
There’s vomit stains on those walls, a part of the ruined paint. A boy once hung out here with his friend, mixed a whole glass bottle of three hundred dollars into his cheap fruit punch and whoever thought that was a good idea. It’s projectile, his ejection. The stench pales into the dead air, a signature smeared and almost gone. But it lingers like the moss by the pipes, drip drip drip.
Yeah, I wouldn’t have thought you could dress little girls here. Did you.
It hasn’t really changed. Except that it’s gotten a little more pretentious, but actually it’s a little less vintage than everyone says. Those are words I try not to use, to be honest. Pretentious - in what sense. Vintage - in what sense. Everyone’s a little pretentious. Use the word, go on - god, your fucking dress is like. So pretentious. So are your huge-ass glasses and camel brown belts with gladiator buckles - I don’t know, they throw the word around like money these days. Like the word vintage. Do you know what the hell is vintage. A satchel made in China in September 2008 is not vintage. The ugly Chanel knock-off your mother owns is.
Don’t act like you don’t want to be important. That’s one of the ways to get people to like you, did you know? Make them feel important and they suck into your trap like a man with a cheap pro. You - I - like to wear a pretty little cocktail dress, Marc Jacobs would be good, otherwise just cut the tag and slip on your suede canvas shoes. There’s a way of looking fashionable without looking like a trend whore - cut the motherfucking belts some slack, Jesus Christ -
Against the wall with puke, there’s some garish wallpaper glued on so it looks like we’re in a cottage. Psst, psst, some sweet-smelling spray, pleasant and homely and nothing like alcohol and vomit. There’s glass installed in the square of scenery, but I tell you, there’s not much to see except more shophouse and grey tar. Once I stood there with my gay friend and we checked out the dude in bermudas downstairs, talking to a girl in a tight tee shirt and short shorts.
You take what you get. Scenery is subjective, yes or yes.
Cheap pro, the girls dress like cheap pro. The shops are so pretty, like little dollhouses with antique furniture and beaded glass chandeliers, orange lighting and coat hangers like London town. Feels like a place and time, I’m an aristocrat and the salesgirl asks me if I’d like any help. Yes, no, take my coat and shine my shoes, do you sell peacock feathers to pin in my hair?
She says yes, yes, they’ve got peacock feathers and fedoras and oh, this is my life.
They sell my importance to me, and I suck into their trap like a cheap pro.
You can’t buy a shop here for a dime anymore, you crazy. The cheapest things here are the people. There’s value in everything here - not so sure about you, who gives a fuck about - why is the shisha so expensive, can you guarantee everyone who’s anyone will see me sitting here? No? Then why are we talking. Should I sit down anyway? The carpet looks good with my dress. I can’t stand it, make me important, make me expensive. I’ll buy everything you have as long as you make me famous.