Thursday, March 11, 2010
There's the back pain and the heartaches. The acne and the belly-aches.
I am saying this because everyone I know is so damned troubled. There's pills galore and razor cuts on soft thigh flesh. Scarring red, then fading to white. Always bearing witness to a psychic pain that became unbearable. There's the insomnia. Like the grim reaper he comes and puts match-sticks underneath the eyelids of girls and boys whose neurons really need to be wrapped in cotton candy for a good eight hours. There's the back pain and the heartaches. The acne and the belly-aches.
There's drugs. My friend, the crack-whore, had her boyfriend commit suicide a few days ago. He jumped off a bridge and the waves sucked him under and filled his black crack-lungs with polluted water. She's shooting heroin now. She is beyond caring, she says. Not too long ago she was a talented student at CalArts.
And many of the blogs I read here, detail the lives of bright young women who binge and purge, binge and purge. For what? To fit in some faggot designer's (please take this for what it is, I am a homo myself) sample sizes? Constructed why? And for whom?
And the violence we commit onto each other. The physical and mental kind.
And clearly, I am no better. I called a lady in an SUV a bitch today. I purchased a pair of sneakers I definitely didn't need. I felt happy with my new possession for about two seconds, then I felt empty empty. So I came home and ate a whole bar of chocolate. To fill the hole. When that didn't work I smoked a joint. It worked for awhile.
Now I have insomnia.
(but I should know. I saw something, felt something. In Texas and in Arizona)
I wish I had a dog to pet.
P.S This is a self-portrait from Tate Modern, London. Shooting myself in a piece by Jeff Koons. Wishing the world was as happy and colorful. XXX