At some point, I realized that going to the gym for two hours every other day was the same thing as going to the gym for one hour every day—kind of.
I was still avoiding the strange robots around ny building which seemed to only lurk during the daytime hours— I had remained largely offline for the last couple days, resting and working quietly in the daytime in order to attempt to shift my sleeping schedule to allow my workouts to occur into the nights when others most likely couldn't disturb me; they did after all seem to be on some kind of track of some sort, often the same faces showing up regardless of what time I could arrive to the gym, as if they were somehow being alerted to my arrival at the gym. I took it as no coincidence.
It seemed that if I were to connect to the WiFi at all, certain other people would appear within moments, or that if I there was someone already in the gym upon arrival, another would show up within minutes. Oftenthese “robots” would do less working out than just sitting on their phones—one of them even bold enough to turn towards me strangely for a few minutes, simply standing awkwardly on the treadmill and staring directly at me—as if I might react with an outburst of anger—instead, I just grunted like an animal so that I didn't scream at him, more wanting to say
“what the fuck did you come to the gym for—to just stand there?!”
And it seemed as though many people actually did, indeed come to the gym to lazily push weights around for a couple sets, scroll and text—then even more lazily stare into their phones, just fucking sitting there motionless— for more time than they had spent working out, almost as if appearing at the gym was just to be able to say to their other social media drones “I'm at the gym” or to brag “I went to the gym today.”
They certainly weren't there to work out, and it was draining.
My training was not so that I could brag—I wanted a second husband.
Even in the awakening of understanding what a man was— and how it would end, or that it would end at all— and most likely due to his cheating, as most marriages ended anyway.
I had come to quite admire Ms. Elizabeth Taylor for having married something like eight times—maybe even nine.
Why not take into competitive spirit the art of love and marriage in trying to succeed this record— I was after all, a champion at such. Love, that isS
I admired more the stars of the golden era than the lackluster and almost fraudulent “celebrities” of my own time. The streaming era plastics of the new age.
It seemed anything living behind a camera or a screen was a bigger lie than it had ever been and my eyes often fell to the back of my head upon seeing someone taking a selfie or using face time— it seemed awful that the world was in such a baseless competition with itself when the fact was that the algorithm controlled all things. If you were going to be a superstar, it was because someone paid to run up your streams—someone paid to put you into the eye of the public, and usually for alterior motives.
I needed the job more than anything and something told me that I would get it, instead of like my last interview at equinox, arriving late and wearing the nicest clothes I had—gym attire which was worn and ill fitting, I would arrive early, and even more so, more than 15 minutes early. I had plenty of books to read while waiting, and more reasons that I could count for needing the job in the first place—I could not go on in the same cycle of needing and needing, nevermind what I wanted. I was willing to sacrifice my attempt at superstardom for just being a normal working person, especially since it meant being able to eventually escape New York, and perhaps even the poverty line. It meant paying off debts and restoring my credit—and best of all, it meant eventually visiting my—
I stopped myself short at the thought of it, as after all the intent of one particular individual did seem to see to it that I was trapped in his clutches, and I had decided that after all I would be better off alone than to destroy my life revolving it around him and his world. The quest for superstardom at all had been to impress upon my son that one should achieve his or her own desires by any means, however these means had begun to limit my ability to function. Music was no longer making anyone money, besides those who the eye of the media of the eye had chosen to represent the up and coming generation, who had been raised on reality TV and this false sense of gratification; I could see entirely realistically that I had more than likely aged out of my time as anything besides a comic, and that my youth had gone away with the damage being in the consistent cycle of abuse first from my mother and then my first husband— I was growing into a mature woman who wanted more than the attention and popularity of fame or superstardom— I had more been seeking the security and foundation of wealth that no longer seemed to come from entertainment at all. The media was often backing representatives of the new generation- a brainwashed and programmed bunch, and either way I had realized I was in a battle and competition with multitalented artists who had been raised to be suportrf and al admired by their parents; my mother had been on consistent schedule of cruelty and violence, erratic behavior and sometimes even torture on the psychological level of a decorated military warman since early in my childhood; I spent much of my first 7 months having my own apartment for such a prolonged period of time for the first time in adulthood regressing, reflecting upon the horrible things she had done and said which had raised me to become strong — but had also raised me to accept the abusive and narcissistic patterns of my first husband as love in general, when the foundation of our relationship had been based in codependency at best. Love had yet to have truly been reciprocated by anyone that I had feigned interest in, at least in the ways that I had wanted. I realized I had never been in a healthy adult relationship, let alone with anyone of value or morale. I had always been the fixer, and all of my romantic interests, fixer-uppers—and at the very least besides the psychological damage I had endured, I prided myself on raising what had been an alcoholic, drug-addicted felon living in filth into a semi-functional contributor to society, who with any hopes would raise his children also into contributors to society, I had learned my lesson by going out of my way in taking my son to Las Vegas— that anything attached to his world, including the son we shared, crumbled into a chaotic and evil curse of sorts. Though the world around seemed to believe it was okay to attempt to tilt me into such a world where I would actually center myself around this child, I refused to put anything at all into allowing his father into my world. He destroyed and ruined everything around him, and I knew the only way I would allow something we had created together into my world was on a temporary basis, and with more money than I was being allowed or afforded.
He was better off in Alaska, and I was better off taking the label of a dead beat mother who had lost her mind all the well knowing what had been done to me had been a crime against humanity. That the continual abuse had been provoke and instigated, and that in the very least neither was I mentally unwell or unstable, but at best a comparable empath so much so that during the course of my life ynder the thumb of my abusers, I had become much like them— now, I had learned that living in New York was not much difference. Most of the people around were within the same vibration of those who had shown to have abusive thought patterns, actions, and behaviors, however—the only difference was that I knew immidiately how to identify them. I knew that I wasn't in fact actually unwell, however being provoked—and that the system, another abuser, was using the information it had against me in order to provoke a reaction or response— anger, explosiveness—anything it could use to determine that I was some type of animal unfit for the higher classes of society; anything it could use to prove that I was mentally unstable and deserved poverty, perhaps even homelessness, but I knew, that although my talent was bring shattered, that I had it; that in the mass of recordings, writings, and records I had created was the deep wisdom and telling of one of the eldest souls that had ever lived, and live again to create with intention into the world; the purpose of this art was not to add to the endless and boundless mountains of useless garbage labeled as content and barely fit for the consumption of the masses—it was after all to create art, not for popularity or fame—and I had realized that the popularity and fame had been with the impression at all that my son would one day see his mother as a hero.
Being hired at Equinox would mean pushing the release of the 9th season as a priority— it could simply not be done in public or with any balance and meant that all of the recordings I had collected would have to be posted all at once before beginning my new job. I had envisioned that it would be released within four weeks time, after m the completion of the projects that I had been working on and with the intention of promoting the album which I had slated to be released in mid-September to give the album traction under the loads of recordings and writings that accompanied the seasons—however— I knew that I simply could not move into a new position—a position which I would keep my artistry as private as possible as not to intersect with the evil and darkness that often associated my attempts to succeed in music—the same darkness which had apparently killed or at least mamed everything and everyone in its path, all the while knowing that the music game was indeed a game which included an almost ritualistic antithesis—the slamming doors and motorcycles were indeed part of this game, and had always in some sort of way had been; the game played using the programmed people who had not been gifted with creative intelligence to be played against those of us that did— the darkness itself often enough consuming everything that it could in its tirade. Still, I was not altogether against earning my own money— there wasn't much else besides pride in realizing that things were moving around me because of the amount of power I could produce at will.
WELL, THAT WORKED OUT— didn't it?
Nothing worked out today, I just had cream of wheat.
It's still the dimension where I'm not a fucking supermodel.
Oh, then whose baby is that?
That's still deadmau5's baby.
It's probably for the best if I for whatever reason become attracted to you
[If you're reading this, it's too late. ]
If and whenever I fall head over heels for someone—
Or even like them in any sort of way—
—and in the end, I'm still alone.
I heard the number was like
It was like, in the thousands.
Thousands of possible mates.
You may as well have died and gone straight to heaven.
I died and went the other way.
