Tuesday, July 17, 2012

If I'm Being Honest

When I think of aging gracefully, I think of a person who is constantly barred out and drunk on boxed wine spending their dead parents' life insurance on prostitutes, boat rentals and convertibles. I think of a person with a permanently frozen face and a standard poodle staggering, not walking, slurring at an outdoor volume in fur and sequins.

It just seems like that's the only life I can imagine that's not fucking humiliating.

I also feel like my notions of what is "cool" are campy and insane. Like, something out of a 1950s motorcycle film, or what an 11 year old would aspire to. Like, someone who owns an old shitty ass car and drinks whiskey and smokes shittons of cigarettes and fucks a lot of people.

One time when I dropped acid, my friend told me to dress her up "like a whore"  and my idea of what "a whore" is was something from the fucking 1800s. Like in my mind "a whore" hasn't existed for like 100 years. I dressed her up in saloon girl clothes with crazy ass makeup, and she was also on acid and kind of took on the persona of an 1800s prostitute, and kept saying, "I'm just a simple whore, ya see?"

I fucking love that person actually. She always has like a zip lock bag full of different drugs for some reason, and has some crazy story about how she got them.

Like, last year on my birthday I was hanging out at some extremely shitty, bathsalty bar in the valley watching this band and she comes up to me and hands me this pill and is like, "Here, take this, it's mdma. I told some crackhead in the bathroom it was your birthday, and she said I could have two hits if I sucked them out of her mouth."

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