(no subject)
banality no more
April 5th, '08
The Noose, by A Perfect Circle, dominates all sound in this room... like waves, a constant crash, upon the shore... of my mind. :] Or this is how I envision it.
Welcome to a beautiful blur... MY blur.
click for full: most recent foto [march'08]- taken in a dressing room prior to buying the viewed shirt.
I wish I were escaping some erotic whim to create this entry but as a very early Sunday morning would have it, i am escaping nothing more than insomnia. Insomnia, once acute, now so very much chronic.
As I sat down to start, I needed something that I usually hold off on until after I've walked away from the computer. A fucking cigarette. Meanwhile, a drink and music are always in order. One cannot sit for too long in silence without the companionship of music and her drink of choice. In this instance, I am drinking the semi-new Life water, compliments to... who was it? SoBe. More useless tidbits to fatten this bitch up with. Okay, okay, maybe I am just submitting to a certain weakness that is to ramble. Ramble on, that is.
The recalcitrant of relinquishing my soul via the written word burdens me no more. publicly, that is...
Quietus and noise. These are the two words taking over the sanity of my mind. They came to me as I watched the whites of my knuckles beneath a faucet of hot water, ignoring the steam nor the heat, while I watched pink water trickle like rain from my fist. A gash owned my palm, and until this very moment I haven't been thankful it wasn't my right hand. I am now. Why did I surrender to this unnessacary pain without so much as a fuck!fuck!fuck! Because babe, I've become THAT patient. Yeah. Really. But then there is the noise...
While I am not one of those who revel is pain, like, i don't know, with a hell yeah, i do appreciate my newfound ability to overcome it. Find it non-chalant or not, if it's not lethal, all you'll get out of me is an oh well. Unless it's a total fuck up on my part, of course. Shit shit shit shit! Athousand curses, for myself okay, is what one might witness.
Not too long back I went to my doctor. A check-up. Nothing naughty. Nothing major. Blood work was in order. Ca ching, ca ching. Or, I mean, as it is every yearly. The nurse came into my room with a skip in her step and I could not help for a split second but wonder what she was on to make her so damn happy. The addict in me, I suppose. She came with her kaboooodle of torturing devices, as is her job to torture people with. No, I am and have never been a needle girl. Or child, for that matter. My eyes were fast over the multicolored cap viles. Assorted in size and vampiric needs. It was certain that dracula, nosferatu --or fuck it-- bathory, had it in for me that day. She needed many viles. In fact, according to yours truly, she needed too many. Aside from that, she nearly dropped a few. Great, I thought. I wonder how well is her aim.
Usually I do not pay much mind to the nurses who withdraw from me. In this instance, how can one not look into the eye of the person who is not only nervous but about to stick a sharp object into the vein within one of your arms. Had it not been for visible lack of experience, I would of never noticed the chick. After a decent survey, I surrendered to one silent inquiry: "Does she recognize me?" Oh yes...but... oh, but not at all.
Standing at a height no more than my own, there she was; dirty blonde locks, generically tanned skin, eyes --though almond in shape-- incapable of the romance i admire, acrylic claws painted the shade of a matte plum and a slightly frosted pout for lips. I also noticed her signature make-up regime still included a dark line beneath each eye, though this was [admittedly] taken down a notch. Before I tell you who she was, let me explain now that there was not one hint of equal realization in her expression. To be honest, given what I know about her speed to grab or catch on to things, this came as no surprise. I think I just heard a bubble pop beside her bleach-assaulted high-lights while writing that. Not to be witty...
Britney was her stage name and I am sure that it will not shock you, given the aforementioned wits of this dancer turned lab tech, to tell you it was the same as her birth given title in the real life. Not much of a stage name, if you ask me. I wish I could tell you that I tried to reason with and warn miss Britney about the dangers in using your real name but I cannot. For one, she fucking hated my guts, and for two, she wouldn't of reasoned nor paid heed. Lose, lose... and all that jazz.
A 'No way,' escaped from within; said, if aloud, like I would say 'dude'. I played it like I wasn't going to make a play at all.
Immediately afterward I looked down to notice a balloon of rising blood rising like hot air beneath my skin. Still calm. Two more viles, I then noticed. "Oh... my... God." Britney had said, seeming mortified. And surprised. You blew my vein! I was screaming from within. You stupid, stupid... my frustration shifted into pity. I knew, for time now, that eighty percent of tittie bars had been obsolete. Closed down. Mostly involuntary on the owner's parts. Owners I all knew to be addicts themselves. But anyway! Got to love the common wealth, baby. I could tell she hated being there. Between the far from attractive pair of scrubs, and white boxes for shoes, i knew she was a soul who craved attention, and certainly not in this modest attire. Work those scooby-doo print scrubs, damn you!
It was different to see her out of an element she totally got off on. She really, truly and deeply dug the fuck out of the attention. I believe, despite the closing of clubs in the majority, this current role in life had lowered her into depression. Her [fake] sun-kissd face, despite the forced skip in step, struck me like lightning during a mid-spring thunder storm. It was obvious that life as a lab assistant found her to be a dull girl, void of her coveted night life. All those attention-seeking-needing-fed off perks. The kind of night life that brings a girl out- out of her shell. But why, exactly, did the bitch hate me?
taken on the same day as the one above.
All this aside, without going into anymore detail, I knew she still lived with a customer. Was he without the money he'd once lured her with, knew she loved, or... did she want out? One can only speculate. As for why she made me an enemy, I will never know why. I will never understand her animosity.I helped Britney in her pre-dance days as a cock-tail waitress. Then again... she, like lil ole me, found ourselves performing more private dancing than serving the scum in the pits. Dare I say, competition parted our ways? So early on?
Want more?
In the beginning, Britney adored me. She was young, like I was at the time, and we kept close, like those of our age might of been at the time, given our fresh meat stage of go-go. The comradeship of the tittie bar industry became a must of many in the beginning. For me, anyway. You did need your allies in places like that. Don'tcha motherfuckin find!? Without friends in such a back-stabbing industry, you are as good as nerve-wrecked and vulnerable. Not that I worried so much about the latter.
By now the last vile was needed.
At notice of this, a distinct pain surface from the nook of my right arm. A small ball, like i mentioned resembled a balloon, had grown in size where the needle had penetrated. She could of penetrated me with a damned blunt object and I'd been less disappointed. Let me see, she is taking[this is provoking utter disgust, forming like a violent cyclone, from within my chest. I feel my cheeks burn with contempt] simply doing her fucking job and the anger of knowing her makes me even more mad.
"Do you have children?" She inquires to save herself. She fears she'll fail, which she figures is inevitable - always. An immediate response involves an enthusiastic description of my beautiful sons and their gifts for reading and writing. Then there is a period of silence.
"I want to have kids. Lots of kids." She says, probably to break the silence. More awkward silence. Again, I tell her that I have twin boys who are equal in beauty and skill. Her reply involved a secret yearn to have children. Lots of children. Trying to not seem like a smart ass, I tell her that maybe, just maybe, she will spawn many. Produce a clan so inspiring that she won't seem so unhappy in a job that she loathes... and a life that in reality truly pays off . Good looks, after all, do not always pay ze bill. I feel happy when humanity and life-improving promotes ... i FORGET my train of thought, as I am jumping into this after a trip to the kitchen in order to gather some eats. After pondering her wishes I pray she becomes a queen ant in the next life.
Anyway, there she was, gauze in her hand and a desire for making endless babies.My real reply stirred from within, helpless over my automatic opinion, one i could not smother, with the recovered addition of course, but here it came aloud: "Well maybe you shall come back in the next life a queen ant... or, uhm, how about mother fuckin queen... bee?" A laugh, sprinkled with relief for her bloody fuck up i am sure, erupts from her chest. I then ask myself: were those her true thoughts, the gush for procreation or after years of hustling, were the art of friendly conversation making and reading of different people being used? No. I know her confessions were complete and utterly false. Liar liar, pants of fiyah...
Miss Britnay. Tell the truth. You loathe children. Admit it! And... alll their... unpredictability. Blah Blah Blah.
After she was done torturing me, she made like fast to exit my room. Whether or not she caught on to who I was still remains a mystery to me. What I do know is this: had she recognized me, I would have never known. Perhaps I shall read the laws of hippa. Were they like the laws of anonymity in an addicts sanctuary, rooms too countless to fathom? Never too much to admire, of course.
Fuck it. She is nothing more than a person I forgot about until that very moment. Her face and all that goes with it will find it's self retreating into the deepest recesses of my cherished memory palace. Right where it, she, whatever... belong.
Not that I truly mind but that the yawn of dawn will soon be heard, come six AM, and though I am moderately far off from this hour... I need sleep.
Much love, friends close and far far away. Stay safe... as you always do.
click for full: most recent foto [march'08]- taken a week or two before the others posted.
BTW - Earlier I mentioned that I had cut myself. It was nothing more than a gardening accident. Blast the sharpness of a spade! Not really.
Also - if you should have the time, check out my scrapbook for those photos [original format] who will not load. Those bitches!
Virtually Yours,
Alexis
