Swamped: stream of contiousness

3 Dec

3:30 AM STREAM OF CONTIOUSNESS FREE WRITE GO

I don’t know where to begin, so I’ll start somewhere random and maybe i’ll stumble and spiral my way out of this dazed stupor. There is still paint on my feet. Egg-shell white paint is splotched over my toes and stuck in my fingernail crevices and god knows where else, i gave up trying to aviod it. Paint is invasive, did you know that? It isn’t happy just being smoothly smothered onto a wall and sitting and slowly drying, oh no. It bites you, literally, its like the little splatters of paint are like little pacmen, except not like mrs pacman with the cute lil bow and all, more like piranna pacmen that are ruthless and as hard as you try, as many times as you rip and re-tie your garbage bag smock, it still finds a way to stain your skin. So you look down and see it’s there and are like ‘what the fuck, you are not wanted here, go back to your wall’ and it just gives you the silent treatment, ya know? Cause it knows you hate it. It just mocks your annoyance with an arrogant muteness and there you are. stuck. in the shower. scrubbing your feet for about twenty minutes, and it still looks like you have the michael jackson syndrome. Today from 11:30 ish to almost 5 i went and painted at the downtown womens shelter with other wsa+member organization people. It was tough, and im not a wimp, it was actually challenging to tape down, tarp off, move furnature, climb ladders, be jumping and ducking and all the while being constantly hyper-vigilant to everystep you take because you forgot to wear paint-freindly clothes. Cause if you did wear paint friendly clothes, that would be a different story. And by “you”, this whole time i mean “I.” I think you got it.
I love dirt. I like mud. I like grassstains. I don’t really like sandy, but i think that’s the exception. My mom knows this about me, my affinity to somehow be exploring something somewhere, and so this weekend she took me to do something that I would never pay for myself but since she insissted…a manicure. Yup, and a pedicure. I don’t know a word stronger than love, but if i did, id insert it here: I love massage. Im not going to lie, manicures and pedicures are enjoyable just because the people massage you, fuck the polish shit. i think its really strange that women paint their nails red. Lips i understand, because theyre naturally pink, so red lipstick is enhancing a feature. But whose nails are naturally red, or redish? Like bruised and bloody finger stumps if you ask me. Anyway, ill let the story progress. So im getting the pedicure and flipping through this portland magazine and see this Land Rover ad which pisses me off. “we’re the first completly carbon neutral vehicle in the united states.”…what?…I read on. what did they mean. Thats what i wondered. get this: they claimed to be carbon neutral because for every car sold they planted like 10 trees. HA. How fucking moronic do they think the public is?? Trees do not counter-balance the effects of global warming. Putting a dead fish in the ground won’t grow me a strawberry patch. Land rover: you silly little s.o.b., you and your false advertising. BUT WAIT thats not my story. Im reading, im comisterating over the blatent decietfulness of our corporate culture, and then i finally tune back in to my souroundings. that happens to me sometimes. zoom. focus. reality. my mind is a playground and i like to play so i spend a lot of time inside of there. but zoom, i saw him, and it made me feel very uncomfortable. The guy giving me a pedicure, knealing below me as i sat on a quazi throne, was my age. He was half-vietnamese. His voice was low and raspy. His arms, like my feet now, were coated in tatoos.So i asked him about his tatoos. One for a fallen homie, some more gang stuff, some vietnamese pride stuff, and on the back of his neck a big “FUCK OFF”. I think he went really slow on my feet on purpose because we talked for the next hour about life. He’s seen a lot. ( I think) I’ve seen a lot. The entire time though i just wanted him to STOP DOING MY NAILS because it felt so wrong, so wrong that i live on the westside and him on teh eastside, and im 3rd generation immigrant and hes first, and i look all white and he looks part asian, and i didn’t have to get protection from a gang and he did, and im in college and hes working in his moms nail place to save up to one day go to school to be a mechanic and NONE OF THAT FUCKING MATTERED because we related as equals when we talked because we are equals. And i felt wrong paying an equal to do something that i could just as easily done myself, paint my nails. The experiance made me happy because he was an interesting person to meet and learn about cool shit from, but it also made me never want to talk to a person providing me with a service again who i relate to that well.
(deep breath)
My friends all wanted to support me when my grandma passed, but i wouldn’t really let them and said the best thing for them to do was to make sure that i had a good time on saturday night when i came back from portland. And they delivered. Saturday night was great. I love dancing, so much dancing, hours of dancing in fact. And wine, and timtam and champagne and lots of troy camp people all over the fucking place wherever we went they were there it is cool like a social TC invasion. I like troy camp. Erraneous. Sometimes sarah and i say to eachother at random times ‘ ok, lets be the last ones to leave’ before we even know if its fun or not. So we said it at andre 3000, and we were. And gavin thought i was a lesbian. Which cracks me up, and makes me wonder how many other people out there who aren’t as bold at that fellow to ask me straight up think that i am a striaght up, no exceptions, lesbian? Interesting. Dancing. Anyway, dancing. Oh dancing, ini middle school and high school i danced like my job was to gyrate and vibrate. Somewhere inbetween then and now, i’ve slowly abandoned that let-me-rub-my-ass-against-your-groin-in-a-way-that-if-we-were-naked-youd-be-my-babies-daddy method. most of the time but sometimes when old skool juvinillle comes on or nelly or sir mix alot, you gotta show the world that babby got back, yaknowwhatimean.

WOAH. ZOOOOOOOOOOOm, its 4:30 and im, what? im writing? about nothing? i really needed this though. whewww.
FIN

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