Today, I have finally passed into adulthood: I have surveyed the sitch and the truth is conclusive -- I am an adult because I am tired. Always. Ok, maybe I am also tired because I do 99 things and a bitch ain't one all night andevery day, but alas, I think thats what beig a grown up is about, or so it feels: Exhaustion is always a-peeking it's little head from around the corner and yelling "Boo-ya!""
But, my only solace is perhaps, The Difference between myself and the adult-tired people on the train I used to see at the close of the day, their souls somewhere far away from their lumbering corporeal on the hard plastic CTA seats, with ties tugged away from the neck with a weak hand... People who had a look about them that has kept me self-employed and not shilling for no man no never for since 1993. -- the difference is, those people look like they had a hard day under someone elses thumb. They very much look like they spend the workday as a reindeer prancing for some fat man in a bow tie in order to make payments on the giant, dark teal leather couch in the living room.
Now, I may feel like shit, but I do not look like some cheap plastic McNugget, like a tv special dinner, like a little bug in a box. (to bite Sam McPheeters of Born Against). I look good. My hair is still the hairstyle of a young person who is having a great fucking time.
I can tell you also, what has been happening in my sleep: Dream on Valentines Eve: I had to save Bobby and Whitney's troubled Marriage. In the dream, they lived next door and a ring of tropical fruits orbited thier home. I intervened on Whitney, who was still wearing her outfit from the "How Will I know" video 13 years later, and I told her "For the sake of your kids, you need to get off drugs and leave Bobby -- I know you are high right now." we were not standing, we were hovering - flying. I then took her child, GOT ON A BROOM STICK AND FLEW OUT OF THE FRUIT NUCLEUS and went home.
Last night, I confronted R. Kelley, under the eiffel tower. He was in a white velour track suit, crouching down, talking young girls, asking them to recall their fondest memories of Jr. High on a tape recorder for him. I bend down to speak to him, and he has this fucked up, creepy voice, high and breathy, halting and giddy, like he was about to eat a giant steak. He tries to get me to talk about Jr. High, I fake him out, bend down to talk to him and instead take his tape recorder and throw it in the bushes and publicly berate him, then kicking dust on his track suit and yelling "What the Fuck is wrong with you?".
Dude, what the fuck is on and on in my brain that I am confronting R&B celebs on their public misdeeds while I sleep?
Posted by Jessica at February 19, 2004 06:41 PM