I found Waldo at the Waldorf Astoria,
“Gloria” for Mr. Morrison to follow me
Into the night with the impolite gang stalkers
On, but just as honestly implausible and awkward
I saw Santa Claus on the local
It's too early for menopause
I can't follow you to a place with no abortion laws,
‘Man, I gotta just start telling people I'm a writer.'
I just had to pet the kittens—which at first appeared to be just one tiny cat then revealed to be two, by the stranger, who had all but stopped me in the doorway to talk; it seemed of course a little procured—and I must have been followed quite thiuroughly from Whole Foods, to the Guitar Center, and doubling back to CVS—where the man stood at the entryway, a man who at first glance has looked largely like a security guiard, though my red-tinted glasses—which, while dulling the pain from the stress and tension of my current happenstance, also counteracted at least some of the sensory overload I experienced going out and into Manhattan, especially fasting, which I had blamed for the man's sudden appearance at first—Of course, then, however, I more logically surmised that I was probably followed, and that this man was more than likely another agent of some sort; I wondered to myself why exactly besides my way of dressing and courses of action I might have been so interesting; it seemed no law enforcement agency was looking to actually persecute for the tedious petty criminal acts I had been almost required to commit in order to stay alive—and—as it seemed as of late, I had only in my own mind been doomed to the confines of homelessness forever, no matter how bleak the circumstances—and the circumstances were bleak; nothing quite seemed worth it anymore, especially to try in a field in which I had been so numerously ridiculed and perhaps even mocked to the point of failure—where here at least, having not eaten in days, and having the unusual go-around as to what exactly I should spend my money on, or rather—how I should spend it, seeing as there was never enough to get everything I needed at once —and the emphasis was on that of need; I got almost nothing that I wanted, ever, and the totality of my inclement had been spent on clothes that weren't turned to rags, underwear, shoes that would shield my feet from the wet and cold, and of course musical equipment—which one might have equated to a want had it not seemed there was a bounty over my head for whatever reason to continue making music—and there was, some kind of unspoken contract, seemingly between me and God itself, that music was the only thing I had to do; and that even in my undertaking once again of fitness as to somehow accumulate the money I needed for my body contouring and the massive amount of musical equipment and technology I needed, there was nothing I could do but sit and crunch the numbers over and over as to how I could pull off what seemed like a multi-level process—the process od creation without limitations, and self care, where I met at the crossroads with any devil that may have mattered—and of course, where I met this man, cradling two small kittens which distracted me from the act at hand; I was drained, some kind of sick, and had been oversleeping, realizing that in the same way that I was using the fast as waste management, the coconut water that I was using to rehydrate after long hours in the sauna and intense workouts at the gym were wreaking havoc on my bladder, waking up constantly to use the restroom and extending my needs for sleep into the afternoon, at which point I would scramble anxiously in order to ready myself for the day, which always seemed to take more time than it should, considering I simply didn't want to deal with the process of going out into the world—the trek from the ghetto to the mid Manhattan drive had become monotonous and full of obstacles, most often in the form of disgusting individuals in some way or another, or what even seemed to be a cult of annoying and irritating people wearing dirty white Nikes as a show of how powerful a stronghold my exhusband still seemed to have over me— but it did seem to be some kind of excersise, not one which showcased his power, but the power of another entity, which seemed only to be posing as remnicense of him to redirect the intent of whatever cruel hex or curse which had been placed over me. By now, I knew my ex-husband had dug his own grave, that his karma was well on its way and that the powers-that-be would not let slip the hand of justice for what had been done to me, nonetheless in front of my children—no matter what I had done before, or thereafter, I had never deserved that.
“You're a creator, what do you do?”, said the man
“Music.” I said, without delay.
“I know. I can tell. You produce?” He asked.
“Yeah.” I replied shortly, not entirely distracted from my intention.
“Oh!” I swept; I was much more interested in petting the kitten than speaking about music at all, but at the very least I had it somewhere, probably written on my forehead, that I was a music producer.
“What do you use?” I asked, or something like that—but now I was fully distracted, as he had revealed a second cat—a black one—to which I was delighted; my life was a little more empty now than even I had expected—I had cut off any connection to the outside world whatsoever and had learned to live without love at all, and yet— the soft and silky baby fur of the kittens calmed me enough so that I wasn't so anxietal, which was probably what I needed anyway—even showing up at guitar center had given me the sweats I wasn't getting, having missed the gym entirely, and it had seemed as though I had always intended to rest on Saturdays, that my new rest days were Friday, as I almost never made it into the gym in Fridays for whatever reason—however, I had given myself a Pat on the back for a 7- plus day gym streak, and had been running myself ragged, and of course, unable to focus—anytime I heard a song at all, I thought about what I needed to create what was considered “placement-worthy music”, or at least, even music that I could palate.
“I'm in FL studio— what about you?”
“Ableton.” I said, almost starting another sentence before he cut me off—alerting me to the reality that he could indeed be another agent.
“How do you know?” I asked, not so curiously as to irritated that he seemed a little too conspicuous, not ever to believe in such a thing as coincidence anyway.
“You've got the glasses.”
“You know, he said, I used to have a pair just like that. Where did you get them?”
“Amazon, I said, of all the places. Of course.”
The next few sentences were a wash, but of course, the entire subject matter swirled around the same mottled object— I couldn't seem to wrap my mind around what the point was, but the intent was made clear instantaneously.
“Uh—who's that?” I was suprised myself at the coolness of my own response— it seemed authentic, even to me.
I shook my head in ‘confusion'
“I don't know who that is. I thought I knew everybody.”
“I guess I'm an old head,”
“Old head,” I chimed “Benga. Rusko…” I was of course being almost openly facetious, almost irritated that anyone dare cohearse an entire conversation if only to bring up Skrillex, the forbidden fruit, the Illuminati poster child with whom I had forcibly cut ties for my own sake.
“Old school manga, anime—“
Now I was entirely disconnected— I assumed this person had listened to my podcast, or at the very least been briefed—and in that instance I was relieved by another passerby, a kind woman, also profoundly distracted by the fact that the man had not one kitten, but two.
I quickly made my escape, and though the man seemed to follow, as the woman watched, I made it clear to the woman that she had done me a kindness, and she stood in the way of his following me down the aisle. I nodded her a great thanks, and swiftly disappeared.
There is no escape from Skrillex.
“What the fuck do you want, Sonny?”
While my heart is thumping
I should let you know, honey
All on autopilot, walking
I haven't eaten; I shouldn't even be here
In your honor, an apartment—
Your birth year in the address
A whole hall of parked cars,
Cover up the scars with hallmark cards
And framed arrangements of newspapers
And Trader Joe's paper bags
Studies psychology, but still doesn't get it
And suffers of course or disassociation
Come unhinged at heaven's doorstep
The blackest of the nnlack in black world
I didn't plan to fast, however
And for once my stomach isn't hungry
Four more, then move past that
But the ball's in your court
The extra small leggings from my Gymshark haul became less of a a stretch, and I felt myselfnsteunking considerably—not that it mattered. Soon without protein, I would once again grow weak— and as always, constantly being surrounded by draining people became more of an irritant than a stressor—but the stressor was this; the coordinator, as wel just as much with any
Why can't I have deadmau5
I get sick just on remnicense
Shit, I should get back to that
There's nothing straight up worse
Than sensory overload at the Equinox
Turn off your colors, broski
Hold on to dear life with the other
Getting to close for comfort
There's no place in the world for me;
Guess it's back to the dirt for me!
There ain't no place on earth
—I need some fingernail polish on
Never has a day gone by I ain't thought about
—what abott it the others—
Was I interrupting something
I'm fucking done with this
He cracks me up. Check this out.
I don't know: look at this.
Am I skinny enough yet, Sonny
Fuck it, somebody will love me
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