NEW YORK - HARD LESSONS LEARNED FROM A MEAN TAG
One morning I awaken to tagged pics from the past. Like a cursed blow dart, my name hovers over what resembles a white garbage bag filled with pus in a tight Victorian blouse. Victorian blouses are not supposed to be that tight. My face is a mint pastel swollen from alcohol and drug abuse, further puffed from birth control, prescribed Xanax, Klonopin, and Zoloft. My eyes are removable marbles partially unhinged, melting from mauve, oily sockets. There's a bit of foamy dribble on my bottom lip and, of course, an attempted but failing "sex smile" that makes me seem baby-like giddy for an enormous bowl of creamy wet pablum or a diapering. Aw maaaaan, ew!
What does one do when tagged like this? Do I view these pics from atop my new spiritual mountain of mental health? Just brush away the unattractive debris of being an out-of-control, reckless, slobular, self-loathing addict and dump it into the bucket of presently clean (and older) wisdom and NOT untag my tag?
I guess the tag was teaching me, reminding me that I had learned a few things from being such a fucked-up glob:
1. Do not snort giant lines of coke. A bump here and there is just perfect. Otherwise, you will have to immediately explode shit, like diarrhea-style, cant-go-to-school-today, I'm-sick-sick-sick, thick gravel bowls of shit from three days ago, intestinal-scraping blasts that would feel totally satisfying if you weren't at the gay bar holding up the fallen shower curtain, which is your bathroom stall door.
2. Try not to be in public when you are on Xanax, Klonopin AND Carlo Rossi wine. You WILL NOT REMEMBER WHAT YOU DID and what you did will only be remembered with word associations such as fire=burn, vagina=burn, bed=wet, pants=where?, skin=gone, mountain lesbian witch who live in trailer=kissed me... Well, OK, that one wasn't so bad...
3. If you wish the world was a mucousy fog webbed in Aunt Jemima syrup and humming lullabye smoke while you stand in a swallowing grave tugging your rectum ever downward, your upper body tethered by the pincer hairs anchored to all your pores then you would be tripping on Ketamine.
4. There is no reason to crush up Ecstasy and snort it unless blood and pain are more fun than warm, hopeful, stimulated, empathetic, tingly, abandon.
5. Karma: If you steal pills...pills will be stolen from you.
6. Long John Silver's is not open all night. You must wait till lunchtime to eat the Treasure Chest Family Meal alone in your car. (Wonder if those hillbillies in sweatpants have some Oxycontin? Keep it moving right along.)
7. Everyone knows you are on heroin. The only one who doesn't know is you because you think everyone doesn't know you are on heroin and now you're acting like you aren't on heroin, but heroin acts more heroin than you so everyone knows that yes, in fact, you are on heroin.
8. If you crush up Ritalin and snort it, you will pluck every hair off your body in one night. Satisfaction will never surface until you have mined every bulb from its root and you will realize the endlessness of the thinner bristles. Sad disillusionment with the boundaries of control will follow.
9. There is never really a black cat in the corner. Quit freaking out maaan.
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