Do you ever find yourself simply spewed from the mouths of Hell? All the mouths, not only the usual suspects.
I knew some people once who redefined sickness. I spent some time there, down among the sick and the rotted out. But I didn’t share needles. That was one place I wouldn’t go. Like that song by Meat Loaf–I was about to write “Meta-Loaf,” but that would invite an exegesis on the New Testament strictly from postmodernism, and if you’ve shared those barbaric quarters–I mean the academy–with anybody who claims to assert such a hold on narrative they can afford to ride it like a zip car and park it in the same lot they found it, they’re likely not playing with a full deck.
Not that I’m anyone to talk. I will say that a squat house with even the most wizened junkies, barely any blood left that’s not tainted, beats the ivory tower every damn time. Of course, if you can keep your head straight and write your way out of the narrative by any means at your disposal, you could survive the dinner parties and the spiritual materialism on display. And if you could see your way to the end of that tunnel, you might find more profitable ways to spend your time.
I have occasionally used a zip car.
There’s a story about this woman who calls herself Shattergirl, and it’s got its moments. High points. I admit to having voiced some of Shattergirl’s personas–maybe dialects, or even masks, come closer to the reality–but this isn’t the self-same psychobitch Lydia Lunch clone you might have read about. I think that depiction was heavily informed by the desire to publish. Get the thing out, even if it skirted some more awkward truths. Such as the fact that I have never lived in a network of underground tunnels, I’m not homeless, and if you saw me in my everyday setting, you wouldn’t think twice about letting me handle your affairs.
I think it’s in most women’s best interest these days to learn how to flashclone. It’s a fine art.
I have never used a zip car for the purpose of kidnapping or assassination.
But back to the squat house. We had some do-gooder types from the government check in on us randomly, because a few assholes gave away the squat’s location. I generally use a P.O. Box for my transactions, if I have to. We concede that civilization offers a few means by which we can extract some joy out of life. I mean, if you can call it civilization. See how hard it gets when you want to tell the exact truth, and your intentions mean far less than the will of the words themselves? Wanton beasts. They will have their say, and you cannot prevent them from speaking.
If you believe in the voodoo of psychiatry, it’s easy to dismiss my ramblings. But if you recall, my mother was a psychiatrist, and it was she who turned me into what I am. No, I am not taking responsibility for it. I was a kid. She was a grown woman, a medical professional, and using me as a guinea pig to experiment upon–well, shit. If you only knew what grueling work it is for me to put these words together. Whether you asked me to, that’s another matter. But you seem to be reading on nevertheless, presumably because you can’t wait to see where this car crash winds up.
I have stolen vehicles, quite happily, that I have used to transport drugs and bodies. Finding license plates that can’t be traced is a problem, but not an intractable one. If you’re smart, you send the authorities back to some kind of data-driven cul-de-sac, preferably one sponsored by government intelligence. You see, this works for all sorts of problems encountered in civilization. Be a part of the system. Pass. Use that ID card–it is what it is for.
Charlie Morgan was this woman I picked up once who was that crazy. Most of the things written about her are accurate. She was standing by the highway underpass wearing a Hefty bag. I was like Jesus, girl, get a fashion sense. She claimed she didn’t need my help, but I provided it anyway, in such a manner that a Samaritan would recognize. If Christ divided the loaves, I’m here with the Meta-Loaf. See, you knew I’d drag that back into the conversation eventually. Cool, harmless fun.
Well like I said previously, I’m a flashclone. A girl has got to blend in. That part I attributed to Charlie, but it wasn’t original to her. I let her have it because I felt a bit sorry for her. Girl was definitely not in control of her own narrative. She didn’t have devices to speak of. And she was wearing a fucking PLASTIC BAG.
Boy did she get an earful from me! I said look, honey. I’ve been where you are. But even at my lowest point, I never used plastic. It’s horrible for the environment. That shit will never degrade. And birds get snared in it. Fish suffocate. She started yammering about how it didn’t matter because nobody cared about her anyway and she couldn’t go about nude and she was raped and somebody stole her clothes and she found the bag in a Dumpster and boo hoo hoo. I said get a load of this: it’s called self-respect. Fuck the plastic. Steal some good clothes.
She thought I had a point, which I did, because I am one crazy chick with resources. And, unlike a lot of bitches, I share. Girls gotta look out for each other. Like that Lena Harrington.
Lena was one of Charlie’s projects. I supplied her with the basic premise: find a woman living an inauthentic life. They’re everywhere, and I mean, every-damn-where. They’re so degraded and beaten down, they don’t even know what to do with themselves. So they perpetuate this bullshit. They want to look independent but be taken care of. They don’t know what they want. Fuck anybody taking away your control for any reason. But it’s never a straight line from realizing and understanding that truth to making it your truth. Lots of miles, promises to keep.
I get into a line, a long line. I observe the women. They have purses full of useless crap. No, trust me, it’s useless crap. They’re robots, walking mannequins. They’ve internalized male vanity and claimed it as their own, their prerogative. But who gets stuck cleaning up the mess that makes when it explodes in their face? Not the guys. They have no idea how their behavior has reinforced these female insecurities. They drive around in their big trucks and work in their garages with loud machines. There’s a guy who lives in my neighborhood who’s always on the roof. Why does he need to be on the roof? Strutting like a peacock. Ok, I’ve got some weather damage too, grouting that needs to be done. I either do it or hire someone, but I’ve got no need to be up there, the Queen of all I survey. We’re all watching him, not in awe, but waiting for him to slip. Especially after a rainstorm. I once nearly pushed him off his perch by admiring his slates. Fucker nearly took a nose-dive. I almost went to the next level with that shit because I wanted very badly to see what his wife would do when she discovered him all mangled and bloody and broken. See, he’s up there when everybody else is at work, so he can strut his stuff. Nobody to find him and take him to the hospital.
Oh God, you’re really judging the shit out of me now. Right? Admit it. Sitting there and tutting, tut-tut-tut like hens. Oh, that awful lady. Why did I pick up her story when I knew what she was about already, and I hated her then? Why, indeed? Because let’s face it, I make you feel good about yourself. I serve a dual function: you get to live vicariously through me and judge me too. But sorry, ladies, it doesn’t work that way. Also: you will not get a billionaire to degrade you and make you beg for it.