dizasters heart shaped box

iPhone Users Guide

2011-02-01T10:48:00.000-08:00

Chapter 37: in the event your phone is lost or stolen...

You've searched the house. You checked the car. You checked your kids room. You've called your phone and heard nothing. Your iPhone is missing. But where is it?

Immediately your mind will begin to race.
Gah!!
What is the day of the week?
What is my account balance?
What the fuck does 2+2 equal???

And then panic sets in as you realize: Everyone will think Ive died.

But this is no time for panic. Keep your wits about you as you open your laptop and fire off necessary emails to loved ones.

"I'm ok. I haven't died. My mom took my iPhone to work on accident".

The first thing you may notice is that your random thoughts travel to your fingers, in the usual fashion, but having no release they bounce back to your brain. Let these thoughts go. No one cares about them any way. You need to concentrate so that you may get back to your misplaced iPhone, and resume mindless chit chat and the usual volley of LOLs and OMGs.

WARNING: So many people complain that texting and driving is dangerous. Well, be warned that writing and driving is way more perilous. Do not attempt this. You may end up in someones yard. The to-do list action items and random thoughts about traffic lights and what color socks youre wearing can wait.

You may find yourself tapping messages absentmindedly on your desk, steering wheel, leg, etc. This is a side effect and is normal.

You may see other people using their iPhones and think "maybe they will let me borrow their phone to check the weather, my Facebook status, etc. Don't attempt this. It's shameful.

If you need to write down important thoughts, wait until you get to your moms office and use paper. I have attached a reference photo of pen and paper, so that you may know what to look for.

This is what notepad looks like when you don't have an iPhone. It's not an app. It's like what the pioneers used! There is no keyboard on paper. Pick up the stylus (or pen as its called) and begin to write. You will notice that your handwriting is illegible and the pen does not come with an auto correct feature. Ignore this. When you get your phone back these skills will go back to being useless as they should be.

And finally, when your mom shows up and says
"You can't live with out your phone for 2 hours?"

Be honest with her.

"Has it only been 2 hours?"

Next in the IPhone users guide:
Chapter 38 - "Reunited and it feels so good! Rediscovering your iPhone."

411 Miles

2011-01-31T12:04:00.000-08:00

Take love. Not just admiration or mild flirtation. Real love. The kind of love that changes you, evokes emotions without words, builds a whole comfortable world for you to exist in blissfulness with someone who is your other half in every sense.

Take that love and subtract 411 miles. Love at 411 miles exists through written and spoken words. All the elements of a normal relationship are stripped away in the physical sense and you have communication and memories of precious hours spent together after long trips in the car.

In between days I have learned so much about relationships. Lessons that are hidden when you are with someone physically every day.

I've learned that waiting for someone to arrive at your door can be just as exhausting as watching them leave.

I've learned that not only does a picture speak a thousand words, it conveys just as many emotions and promises.

I've learned that there is no room for jealousy. Mistrust will shake the foundation, and the building is too precious to allow it to crumble under the weight of suspicion.

I've learned that your world can revolve around someone even if you can't see them every day.

I've learned that arguments are should be chosen carefully, because any words exchanged should be pleasant. Its important to remember that each exchange is a gift best not spoiled by insecurities and issues that really aren't that important anyway.

I've learned the art of compassion. Imagination is required to listen to the day to day life of a place you've never seen, people you've never met, a world you don't exist in. Not just listening but giving genuine interest and understanding.

I've learned that not only can the other person be your lover when you are together, but they can also be your fantasy, replacing all other fantasies, because when they are away they exist in your mind as an object of desire, and when they are with you those fantasies come to life.

At 411 miles the future means everything. It's a waste of emotion to dwell on things that have already happened. Useless to look backwards. Forward thinking is what gets you through the day.

I've learned how to fight. I've felt someone fight for me. Every step in this journey is a step wearing heavy shoes, and makes us stronger.

Most importantly I've learned how to be thankful for this person. I take nothing for granted. Each "i love you" is worth more than the stars in the universe, and I'm holding on to those I love yous tightly. As hard as this is, I have learned not to dwell on the difficulty too much, and be thankful that I have him at 411 miles, rather than have nothing at all.

I love you darling.

When to Shut Your Mouth

2009-10-24T14:22:00.000-07:00

Ever see those cartoons, where someone (maybe its elmer fudd, i dont know) walks up to a cute bear cub sitting alone in the woods... they assume the bear is lost, or dosent know its way, and when they try to approach it for rescue, the mama bear jumps out of nowhere, and the person really gets it? Maybe it was a cartoon, or a story I heard, or something i just fuckin made up just now this minute.

But the moral is:Dont get in between a mother and her child, whatever the species.

My son has been kicking up quite a shit storm lately, back talking, whining, crying, acting in general like an ill-tempered dwarf. At least, thats what i see when i look at him. I had an incident this week at Party City, where after a day of full throttle balls-to-the-wall antics, I found the edge of my sanity. I had been dancing dangerously close to this edge for quite some time, and when he fell out and took a fit at the check out stand, one proverbial foot slipped over this edge. I took him outside, and proceeded to tell him that "He had better stop this whining and crying dammit or he was going to get it!!"

2 women were walking into the store, and the one closest to me decided to get smart. Like the good intentioned citizen rescuing that baby bear, she glared at me and said "You shouldnt talk to your child that way" and then she went inside the store, her over-inflated ego trailing behind her.

I saw red.

I threw that door open and shouted, "YOU just STAY OUT OF IT"!!

I had the attention of the whole store.

She spun on her heels and looked at me and said, "You shouldnt say those things to your child.""
Its my business what i say to my child!" I screamed.
"Well, I have 3 children at home..." she attempted.
"And what? Your kids are fuckin perfect?" I shouted(like having more than one child qualifies you as competent parent. Didnt Andrea Yates have 5 children? Dont give me that shit.)
"Well, how old is he? 4 years old?" she asked, by now, her voice growing softer.
"Yeah, he is!" I said "Dont you EVER try to come in between a mother and her child!! Mind your own fucking business!!" I yelled and slammed the door.

( I had to check my feet, constantly, because my brain kept telling my feet to charge, and my fist to punch her straight in her too-smart grill.)

She turned to my girlfriend, who was still at the checkout, and informed her that i had said "damn" to my child. I suppose she was looking for someone who agreed with her, someone to back her up. But my girlfriend reminded her to mind her own damn business, and who was she to judge anybody?

Heres the deal folks. At least I was disciplining my child. All children are different and what works with one dosent work with the other, and how i want to discipline my child is MY business. I wasnt beating him (yet) or dropping f-bombs on his tiny ears. But hey, at least I was doing something, instead of letting him scream and act spoiled.

I can tell you one thing, that bitch will never say anything like that to anyone again. My girlfriend said the woman was visibly shaking when i left the store.

using or being used (some thoughts on past lives)

2009-09-04T11:56:00.000-07:00

has anyone else experienced dreams of using? i used to have a dream every night about using. some nights i dream that my old friends are there, and we are looking for the dope. before i became separated from my husband, i dreamed that we were splitting the dope and going our separate ways. sometimes i wake up anxious after these dreams, in the dreams i really "feel" the effects of being high. in one dream in particular, the dope is stranded on a rock in the middle of the ocean, and i am trying like hell to free it from getting wet...

i remember an experience of going to the dentist for a filling, and they numbed me pretty good. while in the chair, i thought it was funny that the dentist would numb me to keep me from feeling any pain, but i was more likely to bite into my tongue or cheek and draw blood, and would be in pain later anyway.
Bored in the chair, trying to take my mind off the procedure, i realized that my old was life had the same theme: i had spent a long time "numbing" myself with drugs or just by turning off my emotions and ended up hurting myself worse in spite of myself. when the numbness wore off, i had all these memories (bad and good) to associate emotions with. all these experiences to put behind me all at once, bum rush, instead of one at a time or as they happened. and now i am left with an acute sense of loss. loss because i didnt feel those things as they happend, i missed out on experiencing life with the truest of all barometers; the human emotion.

or maybe i just get bored in the dentist chair...

Anne Boleyn Art

2009-04-15T08:41:00.001-07:00

I am quite taken with this hisorical figure, whose ambition courted, betrothed, bedded and wedded a fearsome king; Henry VIII. His desire for Anne resulted in Englands excommunication with the church. And by all accounts, she was not considered to be extremely attractive. Based on some literature i read recently, i was inspired to do this piece, which depicts Anne sewing her own head back on. Based on how ambitious she was, I really feel that she if she could have sewn her head back on, she definately would have, and taken vengence on her enemies. Vivat Anna!!

Anna Bolina Regina Ultionis

Some additional info:
Anne Boleyn (1507?-1536)

She was the second wife of Henry VIII, and historians still argue as to whether they were legally married. She became pregnant before their marriage, which hastened their union. Henry VIII fought heaven and earth to make Anne his wife, but he became tired of her shortly after they were married. Since she couldn't produce a male heir, her popularity with Henry VIII began to falter. Rumors of adultery and the legitimacy of Elizabeth began to spread. Henry VIII, being a man who could be easily swayed, began to believe in the rumors.

“Evidence” of adultery, treason, and incest with her brother began to mount against Anne. Despite her pleas and protests, she was found guilty, and was to be put to death either by burning or beheading; whichever the king found most suitable. Plagued by his conscience, Henry VIII decided to have a swordsman from Calais do the deed. It took one stroke to remove her head. She had not yet been dead 2 weeks before Henry VIII was onto his 3rd wife, Jane Seymour.

Self Hypnosis

2009-04-15T08:40:00.001-07:00

I write these for no reason other than their metaphorical lament filled the empty space of my head suddenly, for no apparent reason, during meditations... i would like to keep track of the ebb and flow of my subconscious mind.

1.

sleepless shifting

tossing and drifting

towards the origin of the wind

that spot where spotless thoughts flood intelligence

complete and important with undeniable relevance

screaming and stifled

unfinished business

2.

everything

falls

apart

eventually

eyes leave the road to glance at eachother

retrograde rims shimmering cold against the blur of the pavement.

gestures exchanged like emotional currency passing between strangers

showing lust or aggression

eventually

apart

falls

everything

3.

swimming

my head swims in a sea of unrecognizable creatures

reeling

to reel one of these things to the surface, like a thought bursting through the current

it struggles to survive

always tangled in the line of communication.

4.

whats the statute of limitations

on crimes of the heart?

am i expected to pay

for 12 years of blessed shame?

leave me my lament and sorrow

its all ive got.

5.

nail me to a glass cross.

when it shatters

after the first nail is driven through

i can see my reflection in the broken pieces.

surface wounds

uncrucified

to be continued... when i get more time to meditate

...the last time i held his hand

2009-04-15T08:37:00.000-07:00

my grandpa is losing his battle with cancer and is waiting for my mom and i to come and say goodbye.
i have been fearing this moment since i was a small child. in fact i used to imagine them dead, all of them, mothers, fathers, grandparents, aunts, uncles; no one was safe from my mental holocaust... all in an effort to prepare myself for the actual day they die. and i would cry in my bed, in the dark, until my sobs were only the shape of my mouth, utterly void of sound. did it work? no. not really.
i wont sit here and describe how i feel, because anyone who has lost someone knows what this feels like. however, i would like to share that i am struck with the accute horror that when i lose my parents, it will be twice this much sadness, respectively.
and i will add that my grandfather is dying from the same cancer that my dad had. and they are not related. they both developed tumors in the same spot, the same year, almost the same month. so i get the joy of having one cancer patient survive, and the despair of one dying. seems like my joy should balance out my sadness, and i would feel nothingness? why cant emotions be logical like that?

Disk Read Error

2009-04-15T08:31:00.001-07:00

so this weekend, my laptop hard drive failed. the motor on the read head died and the read head was locked in before the first boot sector, so, in laymans terms, i will NEVER get all of my photos, journals, art, etc etc. until i raise 800.00 for the clean room experience. losing a packed drive is like losing a damn family member, even though i live with a computer tech, i guess i fell into a false sense of security, and hadnt backed up my data since march 07. luckily, i fell into the money to purchase a new drive. so to vent my frustrations, we made this really cool clock. its not the sata hdd that was in my laptop, (i could never destroy that one) this is an old ide something like 6gb, totally worthless. but we decided to go green, and turn this trash into a christmas present.

its a bit of a nerve wracking project, you canNOT touch the platter. but gloves come in handy. otherwise, i plan on making some more of these. very fun.

A Shocking Story of Imagination

2009-04-15T08:23:00.001-07:00

in our neighbors yard, there is an electrical box. well, my 3 year old son hunter was riding his bike, and noticed the sign on the side of the box

thanks alot whoever is responsible for contructing this graphic image. it plays havoc on a 3 year olds imagination. since he has seen this sign, i have had to listen to all sorts of stories about the monster that lives in our yard. this monster sometimes lives in the closet, and has big long "shockers" that come out to get him. sometimes in his stories, he is scared and runs away. sometimes, he stays to fight the shockers. at one point this morning, he was wearing one of my old backstage passes around his neck and holding up to the closet telling the monster to "BE GONE FROM OUR HOUSE!!" if you cant imagine what im describing, just imagine a preschooler performing an excorcism of sorts with a backstage pass instead of a cross.

sheesh. first it was the geico gecko. now its the duke power mascot. i have tried to explain that its just electricity, but he dosent get it. because the fuckin thing has a face, and looks menacing. You have to fear the electric bolt that will not only kill you, but probably be happy to do it. whatever, i guess the sign is effective. you can be damn sure he wont be opening that box anytime soon.

Skulls

2009-04-15T08:09:00.000-07:00

Appearantly the only way to wear a skull is on your shirt, not covered with flesh on the top of your neck. Very fuckin trendy indeed.

Can someone please tell me who or what died?

According to my Jungian influenced literature, the skull is a 2 part symbol meaning death (because its dead) and thought (because its a head). so that begs the overly analytical mind to ask "what thought processes have died here and now?"

What part of our culture or society has been sacrificed / regenerated / recycled / to bring forth this symbol into mainstream media, fashion, art, etc? Could it be the staunch religious fervor that has gripped our society for decades? Or what philosophies have the recent generations contributed to our social order that have really shook the foundation of western thought?

im dying to figure it out. ha! get it?? "DYING" to figure it? she laughs out loud.

Yes, i overanalyze and over metaphaphoricize when i do my mental excercises. but im just trying connect the invisible proverbial dots..

To Create A Predator

2009-04-15T08:02:00.000-07:00

I have been watching that Dateline "To Catch a Predator" shit. Im appalled, to say the least. But not for the same reasons that everyone else is. I dont care about men lusting after young girls, that shit is as old as time. I am concerned about what this show says about our society as a whole.

First of all, the reason its called "To CATCH a predator" is because Dateline lures these poor bastards out of their lairs with this whole bait and switch fishing routine that very closely mirrors what i would call entrapment. If it werent for Dateline and their "ratings agenda" these guys would be at home, taking turns pretending to be the 13 year old girl for eachother on the internet, jacking off, then retiring to the couch with a bowl of cereal to watch fuckin Southpark like the rest of us. So, in my opinion, these guys go from "harmless" to "predator" the moment dateline lures them out the goddamn door, and that truly is entrapment.

If you listen to the way that jackhole Chris Hansen reads those chatlogs without any inflection whatsoever, you will begin to think he must be a robot. If you are gonna air someones private life on television, and recite a cybersex dialog, at least do it with some fucking emphasis and conviction! I hate anything that make sex sound emotionless, tasteless and dirty. This whole bullshit is just another way the conservatives try to get into to your living room and make you think its dirty to touch yourself or think about sex.

The only thing that bothers me about the endless parade of guys on this show is that they dont even bother to take showers, some of them, they dont shave or iron their shirts. They show up to take a strangers virginity, lookin like fuckin bums off the street. I dont care how stupid you are, no young girl should have to remember this neanderthal

or this monkey lookin motherfucker

pouring sweat and breathing heavy over her for the rest of her life. If I had to see that face on top of my 13 year old self for the rest of my life, One Million scalding hot post-rape victim style showers and 10,000 tears could not save me from eventually shooting myself in the face.

To the point, no one wants to see this shit. They are creating problems where there were none. I am beginning to think that the only 13 year old girls on the internet are the ones that Dateline provides. If you are a 13 year old girl who has been the unsuspecting victim of internet predation, I would LOVE to hear from you.

And another thing, dosent anyone parent their children anymore? Do parents these days really rely on the media moguls to babysit their kids in this way?

One more reason to shut the fuckin TV off and read a book, to think outside that 20 inch box that dominates your living room.

funeral procession for a fly

2007-11-20T13:54:00.000-08:00

My son, who dives head first off the sofa, is afraid of house flies.
He squeals like a girl when they land on his crayons, and hides under the table, displaying what can only be described as primal fear.
I think he gets this from me. Im pretty squeamish. So when i saw this display of girlish behavior by my usually tough little guy yesterday, I knew I had to squash it.
So, i found a dead fly on the windowsill (which wouldnt have been RIP in my house had i been here these last 2 weeks) and showed it to him. After i chased him down when he ran screaming, I explained that it was a bug. We used it as a model and drew pictures of it. He asked me why this bug didnt fly and I told him it was a "broken bug". He wouldnt hold it, but he did notice that the fly had eyes and legs, and wings like an airplane.
I knew he had finally bonded with the broken fly when he mad me put it in the flat bed of his green tow truck and took the tiny little corpse for a ride around the house, sirens blaring and lights flashing. It reminded me of some makeshift funeral procession with a naked pallbearer (somewhere, he lost his diaper)
At last I put the fly in the palm of my hand, and urged him to touch it. Boys arent supposed to be afraid of bugs, right? but when he made a move to touch it, his clumsy toddler fingers sqaushed it to the palm of my hand and I SCREAMED. Bug juice is YUCK!! It was a knee-jerk reaction, the product of years of being a "girly-girl"
Well, needless to say, he ran from the room and totally regressed in his therapy.
A few steps forward, followed by a giant leap backward. I cant believe I gave him such a complex!! Anyone got any advice for how a bug-a-phobic is supposed to cure a fellow bug-a-phobic? its like the blind leading the blind over here. I cant have a son who is a wuss when it comes to creepy-crawlies

american sex protocol (a love story)

2007-11-20T13:45:00.001-08:00

When women are paid to take their clothes off, its always chaos. If you have never worked in this environment, you wouldn't understand. Being a patron is one thing, but working there is something else entirely. I went to work at Treasures when I left home at the age of 17. I was enrolled in college, having recently passed my GED, but I sold all my textbooks and moved in to an apartment with my boyfriend. After going to Eckerds one night and watching my roommate attempt to rob the place for wax candles to make bogus crack (another story), I thought "I need a real job"

So, my friend Erica, got me this job waiting tables at Treasures. I emphatically said NO when the manager begged me to be a dancer. Besides the fact that I promised my boyfriend and my mother that I wouldnt do it, I just knew I would not feel comfortable. Every time I tell someone I waited tables at a strip club, no one believes me that I did not take my clothes off. I had only recently become promiscuous, so, this experience shaped my entire views on sex and relationships for years to come. I went shopping for my G-String and Fishnet pantyhose, and got myself a tray and I seriously thought I would just be selling drinks, and pocketing a little cash.

What I witnessed on those first few nights FLOORED me. I honestly thought men were sincere, valiant, and wanted to work for your affection. I was confused. These men were Dionysus in Fantasia, beautiful women everywhere, drinking up the wine, slapping the women on their bare naked asses. I was appalled to say the least. I didn't know that men were SO highly sexual in nature, and that women could be SO greedy. And that these two elements of their makeup would converge, and do a strange dance of give and take all in front of my eyes. It jaded me, but it was a great lesson to learn. It has been the most enlightening social sexual experiment I have ever had the privilege to witness.
Being a waitress is a lot more fruitful than being a dancer. There are the men who want to see women naked and go home to their wives, but there are also the men who want the thrill of the chase. These men are the best customers. Waitresses don't typically take their clothes off, so, we are highly attractive to men like this. The chase begins, only I have far more tricks up my sleeve than they do.

For example, he will beg me to drink with him. Just one drink he says, and finally I agree to it, saying, I will drink him under the table. I order doubles for him, and non-alcohol zeros for me. Then I steal his cash when he's on the floor.
Or, if it's a big party of men, I will pad his tab, with drinks he didn't order, and get more of a percentage at the end of the night or pocket the cash. Fuck him, he's on a company credit card anyways, let his accountant sort it out. And in 1996, there was a law that said that waitresses could take their tops off, for a flat rate of 100.00 or more. Yeehaw. I could do that. I had perfect tits back then.

There is a huge riff between dancers and waitresses. I don't know why? Maybe its because if I see you sucking some guy off in my section or in the VIP room, I want my cut, or I'm telling management. But most of the time it dosent come to that.

One night, I fell down the stairs that go to the VIP room. A whole flight of stairs. Carrying a tray of drinks. They wanted to take me to the hospital, but my instinct said no. My torn fishnets were a testament to my injuries, and as a result, I made a ton of sympathy cash that night. In fact, on any given night I never left with less than 500.00.

I was offered tons of secretary jobs, but I am way too smart for that shit. But you gotta let them watch you gingerly slide their business card into your cleavage, and tell them that you will call and fax your resume on Monday morning, anything for the green.Whos bullshittin who??

There are Ivy League Strippers, who work their asses off, while their sugar daddies watch from the corner booth, making sure things don't get outta hand. There are Bored Housewives, who sit in the dressing room talking about their kids schools and swapping recipes, working when they feel like it. Crack Whores are the worst. They will steal your tips, and fight over men. Lolitas, well, they are too young to have any passion about what they are doing, their conscience gets in the way of making REAL money. They wander around aimlessly, waiting for someone to approach them, and break the ice. They just arent comfortable with their sexuality yet. Behind the curtain, the great and powerful Oz is merely the resident gay hairdresser, who advises the women, listens to their heartaches, and who most definitely longs to be a woman, and will clean up after them and cover for them just for the opportunity observe their customs and habits.

There were nights though, when I would stand in the corner of the room, and just watch. Watch my roommate take some young couple into the DJ booth, and wonder to myself if the girlfriend would freak out when they got home, pack up her stuff and move out. Ponder the oddity of the married Indian couple, eating dinner together, two feet from the stage; does he bring her here to make her more insecure? Fuck, she already has to cover her face. Or is there some secret here that I can't see? I would watch the dance between two strangers unfold at a nearby cocktail table. I would see them mouth the same tired terms of endearment to each other, "honey", "baby" and "money" until an agreement was met, and the ritual began. And its always the same moves, the same back and forth of the hips and the inevitable sliding the tits down his chest to his lap. And it would be a bad trip with bad lighting looking through an awkward lens, it would be the equivalent to looking at a National Geographic show, and seem so silly, and primitive to me, like animals, fulfilling their needs and I would wonder "aren't we better, more evolved creatures than this??"

We aren't. And I am ok with that. I learned from this experience, that you can't have love without sex, but keep your love out of your sexual stuff. It's a weird standard, but it works. I think that if all my customers had women in their lives who understood this principal, they wouldnt have to go blow their kids college savings at these places anyways. Maybe the men the frequent these places feel more comfortable expressing themselves sexually because the women that work there understand that concept, and we do, otherwise we couldnt work there. but for us its just a job. Or maybe its just more comfortable showing your cock to a stranger? hell i dont know. If the price is right, I will LOOK at anything.

I feel guilty about the stealing, but its the law of the land. The men are stealing a part of the women that they can never get back. I wont get all righteous and say that the women are losing their souls, but they lose a measure of self respect. And the more that you are on the inside of this world, the more you take its customs with you out into the street, and the same rules definately dont apply. But those frat boys and desperate husbands always get their moneys worth, or at least they think they do. And the women get their money, so its basically a victimless crime?

I left that job after 8 months. You can only witness so much, when your young, until you need a hiatus. But if I ever need quick cash again, I know where to sign up.

dizaster in retrospect (of herself)

2007-11-20T13:43:00.000-08:00

Two months before Katrina hit New Orleans, forcing people to migrate from their homes, I left the Gulf Coast. As I look back, my story is like a strange metaphor for this famous tragedy about to befall millions of people. Only my hurricane was an emotional storm. My flood was the pieces of my broken life, swirling around me suffocating and drowning my will to survive. For my son I fought and cheated death.
I have a sacred bond with the South, particularly with New Orleans. The Vieux Carre and the St. Louis Cathedral. My favorite hotel, the Maison Dupuy, Beignets, and all that jazz, its where my roots are. On my way to NC, I detoured through New Orleans, amazed at how much the city had changed since i had been there with my father. Much like myself, floods changed everything, for both of us.
But, I get ahead of my tale.
In May, I left my home of 5 years, and moved to the Meth Compound in River Oaks. I thought I could live there forever. You wouldnt believe this place. Our landlord was hoarder, a meth addict. We paid our rent in the meth we cooked or scored, so he wouldnt have to leave his web of lies. All my neighbors shared our affliction. It was a small community of insanity kindred spirits. There was a bottomless pit of knick knacks, everywhere you turned, you were tripping over doll collections, metal lunchboxes, lamps, wooden boxes with little uknown pills inside, shoes, comic books, dining room chairs, not to mention the huge plastic bull set atop apartment A in the front. Its an addicts wet dream. Days of digging through the same carboard boxes and closets hoping to find some small speck of interest, and coming up empty handed.
Ha, I just realized its a metaphorical excercise. Digging in deep into your soul and coming up empty handed. Repeatedly. Then theres that saying about the definition of insanity if repeating the same behavior, expecting different results.
If you know anything about River Oaks, it is the most affluent neighborhood in Houston, prime location, and all the rich playboys and tramps were mine to view from my rooftop, for an ounce a month.
And when, in June, I magically encountered the best dope of my life, it all turned to random chaos. I wont tell you the horrors I witnessed as the result too much lithium in the cook, only those who have been there know that the whole of the world goes topsy turvy and every man for himself. Its Junkie XXXL. Someone from this world did give me a wonderful enlightening psychology book about Heterosexuality, but I digress. Thats another story.
I was working at Jackson and Company, the most sought after catering company in the city, run by the "Woman Haters Man Club". I should have sued them, Mr. Jackson found out I was hired to work in Human Resources, and cuz im a woman he fired me. Oh the things I witnessed from the balcony on my smoke breaks. Again, I digress.
That night, at the StopNGo, our car was surrounded by narcotics agents. I was forced to the ground, and hauled off screaming to jail. In holding, I could hear the agents talking about their suspicions of our dealings in apartment B. Terror set in, thinking of the fact that Candice and Collin were sitting in my apartment spinning records, prepping Phosphorus and Iodine. I knew the jig was up.
So, I did what I always do when I am entering into County Jail. I declare that I am pregnant. Its a smart move, it keeps you out of general population in a separate tank while you can sort things out. Only this time, I was never transferred out of that tank. I thought this strange, but since I was let go the next morning, free to walk home with no bail or charges pending, I shut my mouth and ran.
Upon returning home, they hadnt raided my place. I still dont know what the hell happend. It was like a bad dream, only everyone had the same dream. Is that possible?? Had they kicked in Apartment D, the vacant apartment by mistake? Or were they just trying to shake us up? I wasnt makin mass quantities anyway. I dont know, dont care now.
A few weeks later, smokin the dope made me throw up. A pregnancy test confirmed what you already know. The rains came and flooded that complex, and washed away all of my effects, warped every vinyl record, destroyed every love letter i ever saved, the colors on all my photos bled together. Ffilthy water, filtered by the walls that were infested with mold, all over my clothes and in my bed. everything i ever coveted stole or cherished as a monument to my confusion was washed away, just like my evil facade. I had to rebuild, I could no longer hide.
My landlord sold the complex in July, and they tore it down; new housing for those rich people who used to walk by my window.
I revisit this tale 2 months before the 2nd anniversary of its conception. I need to know how I came to leave such horror behind, but still am not happy? Can a person go from shit, and never live it down? I used to be th/ankful for my memories, they are what make you who you are, but now I just want to forget, to stop longing and lusting after freedom. To accept my fate. To be a true fatalist.
Even when I am found, I am still lost inside.

Welcome to the Jungle

2007-11-20T13:20:00.000-08:00

I was checking out some apartments online, and I came across this "review" on apartmentratings.com. I didnt write this review, but i post it here to share it. I nearly fell out of my chair:

welcome to the jungle

From: -Anonymous-Date posted: 1/10/2006Years at this apartment: 2004-2006

ive been living here several years and this community honestly gives me nightmares. im scared for my life. im held captive here right now and i cant wait for someone to rescue me. why did i renew my lease you ask? i told the staff years ago that i didnt want to renew but they forced me to at gun point! my 3 main problems:-the maintainence man killed my dog with his chainsaw while he was pruning the hedges because "i didnt pay the $800 pet fee". i said, "sir i respectfully disagree. i paid that pet fee in full. please refund me my money." he then proceeded to chase me with the chainsaw back into my apartment. luckily i had a plummers helper hidden behind my couch cushion so i was able to fight him off.-the $400 a month water bill. i filed a complaint with the manager in the main office, even after his attempt to convince me that this was a normal occurance. unfortunately when i followed up the complaint the manager claimed to have lost my report, and at the time had no paper or pens for me to file another. to this date he remains out of paper or writing instruments.-the repeated stealing of my lawn gnomes. im finding myself purchasing a new lawn gnome every 2-3 days because of their constant disappearence. i reported this to the main office, but their answer did not reassure me. they claimed that in the magical world of hunt club, lawn gnomes come to life every night and kill the stray cats roaming the neighborhood. initially i felt this to be a horrifying proclaimation, but soon changed my mind after noticing a consistant decrease in the population of stray cats. i guess you could say that i went from a sense of horrified-anger to proud father. -the coke machine by the pool was removed after my first year. where else am i suppose to get my $1 can of coke.let me just say that theres not a day that goes by without me fearing for my life, and if i could do it all over again i would have taken my money to either harris houston or chateau villa (house place) on the side of highway 49. hunt club is a beast of a complex. so with being said, i give hunt club a rating of 5 stars because of its quaint atmosphere, and charming southern view.