FFD 
 

People, as a whole, are predictable. Those who are not irritate me greatly. Predictability makes life easier, makes things simple. For example, look at newscasters. They do not alter their make up, cut their hair, or morph into any fantastic wardrobe changes. Why? Because, should any of that happen, it would totally fritz out the whole of America…and maybe the world, too.

But like I said, people like that irritate me greatly. Some days I just can’t help but be like, Hey man, it’s just not cool, and still no one listens. This is like when I get in a taxi or someone offers me a ride, even though I have a car of my own, and asks me a question involving my opinion and I just don’t know what to say. Not because I don’t want to offend them, but because I just don’t have an opinion. That in itself and I’m like god god god.

Late at night, I like to take a couple Valium and then stand in the shower with the temperature just right. The water feels so soft against my skin and it tricks me into thinking all I need are these chemicals and the safety of the glass shower divider panel thing, because why don’t they give them proper names or do they just call them doors? After I’m finished standing, I never towel off, just walk around my apartment and let the water disappear from my skin as the air around me eats it. I like to stand before the large windows facing other apartments or streets and enjoy the idea of other people seeing my body in such a bare state. And then I crawl into the security of my black satin sheets, which I know are impractical but love them anyways, and dissolve into the nothingness of drug-induced sleep.

If you asked me to describe my apartment I think all that I could tell you about were those sheets and I don’t know if this bothers me or not.

People on TV talk about fear and death and I sit on the couch in tainted apathy, finding too much comfort, too much humor in what they say. And I’m like, Fuck man, I don’t want my kidneys failing either, but, fucking hell, better you than me. Then I take small sips of water from a clear glass because I won’t drink water any other ways except out of Evian bottles, which spells naïve backwards if you look, and consider taking a bite from the crystal and chewing chewing chewing my mouth into oblivion.

I decide I am not at all ready for the day and snort another line of the cocaine waiting for me on the coffee table, then wonder why the fuck it’s called a coffee table and who came up with this?

Also, why haven’t I bought a laptop yet?

I consider putting on clothes, but instead just close the blinds for once and watch TV, hoping no one will come looking for me. My phone rings and I stare at the caller ID and don’t answer until the answering machine picks up and my manager’s voice whines into the room and he says he’s coming over. I want to pick up and stop him, tell him not to, but I can’t remember how to turn on the phone.

So I toss my phone behind me and hope my door is locked and realize that, unfortunately, my manager has a key. Naturally, I think of this only when I hear his key turning in the lock.

He walks in and tries to turn on a light, then says, Fuck, Love, what’d you do to the lights?, and I say, Baby, I threw away all the light bulbs because they made my skin grey and he asks if I’m freebasing and I say it isn’t even noon yet and he informs me, Actually, it’s three in the afternoon. I pause and tell him I wish he wouldn’t say afternoon and does he have a cigarette?

He disappoints me when he says he doesn’t have one, that he’s trying to quit. I frown pout frown and loll my head around on the couch, then continue watching infomercials on the television. He sits in a chair near by me, but things are not awkward because he’s used to seeing me naked-not because we fuck, mind you.

He rambles but doesn’t say much and I wonder if I should go buy that Bowie CD because I know this chick who knows a boy who says that Fuck he’s awesome and I should wake up, tune in. Not those words, but I like them better.

I remind myself that I am thirsty.

I schlump to the kitchen and fish through cabinets, looking for this pretty kickass green tea that I bought in Tibet, but cant find it so I grab a carton of soy milk from the fridge and walk back to the couch, drinking out of it-the soy milk carton, not the couch. No one drinks from couches, do they? Maybe the Mayans? They drink from crazy shit like that, I think.

Eventually my manager says he’s leaving. I offer him a line before he goes, which he sucks briskly into his nasal cavities using a rolled-up one hundred dollar bill and I find this funny because he’s cutting out cigarettes but blow is okay? He says something- a quote I think- something hippie and free love and locks the door on his way out. I look around for a clock, realize I got rid of those, too, and check the time on the guide on the TV.

Six-ish.

Was he really here for three hours?

I remember that I am supposed to be having dinner with some major record executive and that he’s obviously gay gay gay which is cool because I’m really needing to fuck someone.

Why they like doing that, I don’t know. I will never understand the color purple or why the British seem to know what to say. Run and hide-aces are wild.

Ever eaten those marshmallow Peeps? I always get excited at the prospect of getting to devour them, but then when I actually do eat them, I am so fucking disappointed.

I mill my way to my bedroom and pull on a rather gay ensemble and twirl my hair in my finger tips and although I dislike wearing clothing, I glance in the mirror and know that I look fucking hot. I light a cigarette and blow smoke at my reflection and grin big, Cheshire cat-like. I feel like getting off, but water my lucky bamboo, which I have a feeling isn’t all that lucky, and go out on my balcony instead. I stare at the sky and don’t see stars, then look at the cement far below. I lean lean lean for fun on the railing that is protecting me from falling and wonder that if I did actually fall and landed on my head would it kill me?

I giggle and walk inside.

I snort some more coke; shove a condom, a pack of cigarettes and my wallet in my back pocket, then toss out the condom and laugh because Hey man, I watched a special on gonorrhea on television today and I’m not fucking scared! I look close in the mirror and wonder if eyelashes are really all that necessary and then decide to re-subscribe to National Geographic tomorrow.

I take a step back and remove my pants, then take off my underwear and put my pants back on. This brings me great relief and I am not sure as to why, but I suppose the result feeling is good enough for the reason not to matter. Many things in life are like this, I think. I look at the condom resting temptingly on my duvet cover and finally shove it back in my pocket and this all strikes me as so funny that I almost double over on the floor.

Sometimes I really wish I could speak French like that baby because then I could go to Thailand and ask about those goddamn elephants because how how how I don’t understand but they do and I see it and I think maybe its a secret and it’s one I’d kind of like to know.

But Fuck knows-everyone’s gotta keep something from me.

I fish around in my sock drawer and pull out a small baggie-the contents of which are small white tablets-and take a few out and settle them in the safety of my pocket because baby bay baby ecstasy is a fun time. I’m no raver, but hey I figure one day I could be-I don’t even have a garage.

But this is all just what I figure.

I put on shoes even though they choke my feet and I quite prefer to be barefoot but somehow I think there is a No Shoes No Service policy at Bellagio, even though I don’t really care. I’ll just kick them off once they’re hidden under the table, then play footsie with this guy I’m getting dressed for because I tell you what- if I’m putting on socks for this occasion, he better be planning on sucking me off later on tonight.

I stand in front of the mirror again and lift my shirt because I am suddenly aware that my ribs are very sore, even though I don’t know why. I prod at them and they feel so sharp and a fear that they will split through my skin floods my mind. I decide maybe it’s okay, but then that it isn’t and I don’t really want to leave home at all. I take a couple Valium and step inside the safety of the shower. I forget that my clothes are still on until I turn on the water and my shirt and pants stick so slickly to my body that it feels like a second skin. I peel them off and leave them in the shower after I’m done and then walk out of my bathroom, realize I have no cocaine left, but decide it’s alright because, for once, I’m too tired to get high.

I walk out onto the balcony without any clothes on and the freezing air feels like freedom against my wet, wet skin. I look for stars again, but don’t see any and try not to let it bother me. Curtains in the window of an apartment parallel to mine part to reveal the figure of a woman. I look closer and realize that she, too, is naked. She grins and waves, but I turn around and walk back inside, drawing the blinds.

It’s all just a game anyways.

I relax with this and let it fall to pieces inside of me, then zonk out on the couch. 

C.Thomas lives and works in Beijing, China, where she plays music and teaches English for money. She's contributing to the sociopolitical revolution via underground media, and heads the IWW SanLiTun division.