pica_pica

I really had no idea. Like, really. Not a clue.

Sure, I figured that in time, once Id moved outta here, and finally got my ass settled in a new place, that eventually I would start to see things a bit differently, get a bit more boing re-bent into my flattening arches -- that whole spring in the step thing.
But I figured that spring wouldnt really become apparent till like, oh, spring.

This place (here) is what I know. Its what Ive known for a long time. A LONG time. Hell, except for growing up in the house I (well, growing up in the house I grew up in), this apartment here is the absolute longest I have ever stayed put in a single abode. Fuck, if signing the original tenancy agreement was a childbirth, that little demon spawn, (word wanted to correct that and put demons pawn, maybe I should have let it) would be half way through grade 2 by now and probably hacking into the neighbors wireless internet to surf porn and learn how to make plastic explosives from Vaseline and strike-anywhere matchheads.

7 years

When we moved in here, I hadnt broken any legs yet, none, not a one. I was still slingin creatine, Vinpocitine, HMB and protein powders behind a retail counter for that glass-ceiling retail wage, I had long hair and Morgans face was still all black, not white like that, with that new tumour jutting out like that from inside his cheek.
Grandpa, Gimpy and Nemo were all still alive, and I hadnt yet suffered any nocturnal visits from creepy bird creatures that were too real, too tall and too full of fucked up secrets beside my bed.

(Annunaki or whatever the fuck word that was Id never heard before I really REALLY woke up, and shivered cold, wet and terrified to this computer to look it up.)

That was all a long time ago now, I guess...

Hell, I can hardly place this in time, but I guess it happened too.

Somewhere, hidden between the bird people and that final moment above, there were apparently strong thoughts about what REALLY lay ahead for me, what REALLY was supposed to be going on for me For a couple of years there I think I was consumed with thoughts of taking cello lessons, writing more, quitting smoking and being outdoors and out of the city at every chance I got. I wasnt livin the ME life. I was fuckin dying there.

However, I think there may have been moments there, while I was still semi-comfortable in the confines of the comfort of the above, when I started to really stir. I started to really get it and hear those fucked up bird-words. I started to really need to make it happen.

Unfortunately, I also started to really believe that none of the above could or would ever happen while I was locked inside that relationship.

(I still think I was right, and thats not a slur, slight, dis (or dat.))

I saw for a short glimpse, a something that meant something, and in the blur, I cut all ties and ran blind for it.

Well, I havent really thought about how long Ive been here. Actually, I cant really grasp it. This place doesnt really have any feeling of time to it. It just is. Perhaps it was purgatory, (but sitting on the bench closer to the hell door, if only because this bench was closer to the smoking room, and the hell door had waitresses with free martinis that would pop out every now and then. Kinda like First Class in a 1964 airliner, and the stewardesses wore garters.
Fuckin idiots at the other end of the room with their little round, dry biscuits and fake wine, HAH! Where are they now?).

Anyways, after a while



--insert history here

(ok. I still dont get this part. Somebody please explain it, cuz I cant)

Tick tick tick months go by. No Cello, but something new.
Some understandable submission.




Anyways, after a while I kinda figured I was dying here, but that was ok. Mostly. Dying seemed timeless too, so it fit right in.

They say bleeding to death or drowning is a really nice way to go because you get all at peace and feel like your just falling asleep.
I dont know how they know that, cuz youd figure that youd only really experience that once and then not really have a chance to explain and properly document the experience.

ok dude, Im going to drain like most of the blood out of my system, but when I give you the sign, you gotta put it back in real fast like, k?

Or

no dude, just hold me under, wait till the bubbles stop and my face relaxes and then just give it a second to let me get my head around it, to remember it right, but then you pull me out quick and do that chestpump cartoon lip-fountain thing, maybe hang me from my ankles and smack my back or something, but dude, I swear, if you arent fast with it Ill kick your fuckin ass. No joking around this time.

But if thats what they say, then I guess Ill just have to take their word for it.

I think Im gonna be a they now too and add living in this apartment to that list.

Real peaceful like, quiet, calm as the months go by its better. None of that shit matters anymore, its all good. Rent? Whatever.

No internet? Not a problem my man, slip this here PCI card in and swing that antennae around a bit.
No electricity? Thas ok!, you made those candles, man!.
There ya go, see? Its all good.

Yeah. Cook up summa them perogies. OH!, vintage! Theyre better with the hard white freezer burn. I heard once that it does something to the molecular structure of the carbs and its totally anti-carcinogenic so rip open that bag and let those little white fuckers burn a few months in the dark white arctic before that boil.

Smoke em if ya got em cuz tomorrows Tuesday, or Sunday or the day before the day after two days after yesterday.was tomorrow or some such shit like that. Just light up.
Fuck cancer itll never catch this train.

Hey dude, the dog there, hes splayin again. cant get up, better give him a lift.
There ya go.
Nah, hes not lookin sad, hes just an old dane. Their face droops like that with age.

Sleepy.
Tick tick tick.

Months? Years?
Clockpunch, Clockpunch, Clockpunch, Clockpunch, Clockpunch, Clockpunch, Clockpunch, Clockpunch, Clockpunch, Clockpunch, Clockpunch, Clockpunch, Clockpunch, Clockpunch, Clockpunch, Clockpunch, Clockpunch, Clockpunch

Shave, fuck: still farting. Oh fuck, still alive.

There, much better. The phone hardly rings now. Nobody to disturb this slumber.

Staring, cant write.

Ok, write, fuck. You write. Thats what you do.
Ok, writing.
Today is Monday, Im writing. I am sitting at mywritingdesk and I am writing because itismonday and thisis whatiamwritingabout because I am doing my laundry and it is cold out and morgan is not good and I am not good and .
Hamburgers, fuck.
Hamburgers and ketchup.
Oh yeah baby, hamburgers and ketchup and sweet Venetian sorrow.
Sweet Venetian sorrow and hamburgers and Bergmann and morgan and death and the sleepy tug of FUCK




And Im not going to portray Love in a bad way, although in this story I want to.
In this story, if it was purely fictional, Love would be this uninvited fucker-upper. A caffeinated cramp in the ever deepening slumber, a whore mistress pulling me from this bony caress, pulling my mouth away from licking the bleached white grin of she who strokes and combs my short grey hair in the beautiful ridges of those long yellow nails.

In this story, Love is a researchers worst nightmare anomaly: a tourniquet, a scuba tank.

But its only half story / half not-story, and so I cant get fictional on Loves ass.

And I have a new story to tell, one that is quite a bit different.