Eskimo Sister Blues

March 7, 2013 at 12:10 am (Uncategorized) (, , , , , , , , , , , , , )

Last night I went to a punk rock show on the bad side of Cherokee street. After dark, the little mom and pop taco stands shut down and the salvation army shutters its store front. I do not dare walk alone on this street for fear of being accosted by roaming droves of wild men, throwing me lines like, “where your man at”, and, “what’s your sign?”. If I’m lucky, one of these wanderers offers to “throw me my number”. Not once have I responded in a positive manner to these people. I often wonder if that works for them in other areas of their lives.

I start the night with half a bottle of Seagrams whiskey and a bowl courtesy of my friend Kaj. He had come dashing to my rescue earlier from the clutches of West County. I was in a strange way by the time we made it to the venue. The car ride over from his apartment was peppered with talk of an egg salad orgy in a whiskey fever. I said in earnest, if that was the weirdest the night gets, I will be disappointed. We roll up to mushmaus completely wide eyed and bushy tailed, looking for any excuse to act badly. The venue is about 45% cleaner than when it was inhabited by its former tenants. There is noticeably less garbage smell. The room is fitted with giant bay windows and hardwood floors. There’s some sort of colored film over the fluorescent ceiling lights. I sit alone on the floor against the wall, drinking my 54 oz diet coke and Seagrams concoction. I didn’t really feel like running around and being social in the state I was in. I sat there and watched as the place started to mill about me. People drunkenly swerving about like some sort of sad spectacle. There’s a hum of chit chat punctuated by ear splitting guffaws from drunk girls. My social anxiety lessens as I stare at what it means to be young and hip these days. Yes, this is my grandfather’s Lacoste sweater and no, you can’t have it.

Kaj leaves me to babysit his backpack full of beers as he goes off to schmooze. I awkwardly check my facebook and laugh at peoples’ attempts to woo one another. It’s maybe eight o’clock and I hate people already. I should stay off whiskey I decide. The lights dim, people congregate, punk rock happened. Austin pacing through the crowd as he bopped along to his garage made hits. The drummer Kyle did his best Meg White impersonation while dressed as the Tommy Lee Jones Two-Face. There was broken glass everywhere. I vaguely remember someone picking it up and eating it. Things got hazy at some point, but that’s to be expected.

The next band, Dad Jr. eventually is given the green light to set up their stuff. For some reason no one can explain, Zach is bleeding upon arrival to the show. Some one apparently gave him a teddy bear to wipe it off with. They ended up throwing the blood covered animal around for a while from what I gather. I also was informed that the whole band ended up with splatter on them somewhere. It’s not a party until someone gets hurt or humiliated right? During act 2, Zach also was waving around a large QT similar to my own. Prior to this, Zach had talked about peeing on stage or at his shows many times. I see the yellowish liquid sloshing about in the cup and instantly kno where this is going. I retreat to the back of the venue, hoping to avoid the splash zone. Zach takes a swig of the piss cup. A girl in front pleads with him to let her drink from the same cup. He tries to warn her. She says she doesn’t care what was in it, Zach shrugged his shoulders and handed the plastic piss vessel to the broad. Zach watched with a look of shock and amazement on his burly viking face. The set was ended with a thorough thrashing of equipment and general chaos.

Another band plays, they rock, I dance drunkenly with my Eskimo sisters. As we stood there, the three of us, Grace just says,” Am I going to be the one who says it?”. I reply, “oh you mean the fact that the three of us are Eskimo sisters?”. She lets out that trademark cackle and nods. I shake my head. I try to explain how it’s no good, that there’s something bizarre about the incestuousness of South City. I yammer on about how I have had my share of bad experiences. I think no one ever has the balls to say what they want at this age and I find this the most confounding.

I know it’s hard to accept guys, but I don’t want anything from you. I don’t want you to pay my way, or pick me up, or tell me how pretty I am. These things are nice and I do appreciate them, don’t get me wrong. The fact is, I don’t want a relationship right now. I want to have a guy I can call at 2 am no questions asked, no bullshit spewed. I don’t want to play these games with you sirs. I don’t want to be wooed unless you really think you are man enough to handle someone as amazing as me. In my experience, the guys who I like end up being misogynistic trash. I don’t want to compete with you, I don’t want to have to bend over backwards for you, and I certainly don’t want you to put me down. It’s that weird alpha behavior that people think is ok that makes me want nothing to do with relationships. Oh yeah you’re cool, I get it. I’m cool too. I’m not trying to dominate you or emasculate you because I know more about a band than you do. I’m not trying to pull some power trip on our date so why do you think that’s ok? Is that what you think women want or is that just how you are? Does it make you feel good to tell me how inferior I am to you in whatever way? That’s not what I want to sign up for dear readers. I want some one t treat me as their equal. I get it, I’m great. This comes off as narcissistic, I know. The fact is, I know I’m worthwhile. I know that I am a desirable and interesting human being. I like that people recognize this. I don’t however like being put on some sort of pedestal. I am not fit to be worshiped. In fact, it makes me seriously uncomfortable when people are over the top towards me. Can’t we just be friends who laugh at each other’s stupid jokes and lay in bed naked watching netflix all day? Why does interaction with the other sex have to always be some big to do? Are these standards really that hard to measure up to?

I get uncomfortably drunk after Bruiser Queen finishes playing. I walk outside and follow Kaj back to his car. I play look out as he pisses on some dark shop front. I drunkenly knock him back. We do that weird drunk glare thing. You know the one I’m talking about. I hear more glass breaking in the background somewhere. We leave back to the apartment. This is the point in the night where I want to fight/fuck/kill something. I am full of social contempt. I want to watch the world burn, as cliche as it is.

We make it back and another six or so people show up. Kaj disappears early on. I try to go find him and just end up kicking him in the chest a few times while he laid in his bed. I sit back on the couch. The conversation is going no where. I watch as Zach plays grab ass with some ginger girl on the couch. I have no idea who she is. I am bored and feeling spiteful. I see Adam talking to Gabby. I guess I’ve got another sister to add to the family. I crash hard on the couch, boots still on.

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Steenie’s Big Day Out: Day One at Inpatient Care

February 13, 2013 at 1:30 am (Uncategorized) (, , , , , , , , , , )

I woke up unsure about the time. The room is dark and I can hear voices in the hall as I stare at the ceiling blankly. I get up and brush my teeth for once. I put on a bra and deodorant. I don’t want the crazies to judge me.

I aimlessly walk into the main hall.  It still looks dark. I decide to get on the phone. I call my mom.
She says she can’t hear me. I refuse to yell into the receiver. It’s awkward enough talking in a cowded room let alone yelling to your mother about how your time in the loony bin is going. I ask her if she brought my phone with her to work like she promised. She didn’t. I ask if she could bring me some pants later, the ones I was wearing were covered in stains. She says she doesn’t have time. I’m trying to look upwards. Someone told me once that looking up is supposed to keep tears from falling and smearing your makeup. It’s no use.
My face can’t be buried into my hand any deeper. I rub my forehead a couple of times before I start pulling at my hair. MY fingernails embedded themselves so deeply into my palm, they leave red marks when I hang up the phone.
A nurse comes over to ask me if i’ m ok. I say i’m fine.
Another nurse wants to talk to me. We both agree that things are weird. She asks a million questions. We nod at each other and she walks me down to breakfast.

I have biscuits and gravy, eggs, and bacon. The nurse goes out of his way to get me hot sauce. This makes me feel better. I sit by myself. A silverhaired lady tells me to sit with her. I politely say no. I’m not here to make friends.
After breakfast we’re told to line up. I was expecting recess now. I wonder how dodgeball would play out here. We file quietly back into the common room.

The guy from last night keeps reintroducing himself. He interrupts people and is noisy. I jok that his name is Kenny Rogers. He doesn’t get the joke. I feel irritated and slow. I start getting anxious. I’m now the one interrupting people. Is this what they label impulsive behavior? I sit and psychoanalyse myself.

Sitting in a group, it’s weird listening to others. This is especially true with Kenny. He makes me uncomfortable.
He keeps talking how people take advantage of him, how he takes things personally, how he gets put down.

I don’t know how to sit here and be still. I have to keep writing.

I feel like there’s nothing much to say in my group session. I’m curt and impatient.

I move to the common room again. Kenny plops himself down between two patients while they’re having a conversation. Without pause, he starts grilling one of the women about her problems. She deals with him like a champ. I hope I don’t lose my temper and snap at him. I lack patience but I have to remind myself he’s sick. I need to learn patience.

I’m getting more anxious about my appearance. I don’t know what to o with myself.

Kenny asks the same girl if he could win a pageant. No one wants to say no. No one knows what will set him off. For fuck’s sake, he makes me uncomfortable. They talk to him about winning pageants until he switches to complaining about his name. I tell him that it’s better than mine.

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