CURSED
I can’t say nothing has gone right for me. There are a lot more people suffering worse than me. I know this. I repeat it over and over again, but it doesn’t help. As far as I’m concerned I’m having the worse luck in my life.
It started when I lost my home and just got worse from there. From my kids getting sick, which kids will do, to paying over a grand in car maintenance, on a vehicle that isn’t even mine. Its as if I’m overdrawn on my credit of good fortune and fates coming to take payment from my ass.
Today I did something I haven’t done, ever. I locked my keys in my car. Before that, I nicked a chunk of plastic from my $350 Sony PSP just two weeks after exchanging it because the original purchase had dropped pixels. It shouldn’t bother me, but it does. One scratch and I can’t look at it again. All I see is that fucking scratch.
One thing after another…
The first week in my new place and we had a gas leak, water leak, an ant invasion – and these were resilient motherfuckers too – and our water heater has gone out three times in two months. My car has spent a month in the shop, and when I picked it up it had a nail in the tire, no gas, and the check engine light came on only 24hrs post.
There is no end in sight…
My brand new shirts shrunk. My son broke my laptop’s key board, got sick, needed breathing treatments, and my daughter might go from her high GPA school to low GPA Latino school down the block, across from the projects. My allowance has gone from $400 per check to $200, just as gas prices are nearing $4 a gallon. Now I must get a second job.
Did I mention I was kicked out of my home, where I lived for six years. Where my children were born, and we were under rent control? And my own father, who had an apartment we could use, was going to charge me $1100 rent, when all my other siblings live rent-free.
I think I’m going to die.
I’ve had pains in my left arm. My eyelids twitch uncontrollably. I’m tired, angry, and owe my ex-shrink over $200 in missed appointments because I was sick and working.
Monday, April 17th 12:05pm
JPG enters Dr, Shrinker’s office, greets her, and sits in the usual chair.
He breathes heavily.
JPG: I don’t know, Doc. I’m so tired –
SHRINKER: Maybe your tired because of your overdue balance?
JPG: What?
SHRINKER: Have you read your last two invoices?
JPG: No, I thought there was no need. I’m paid up.
SHRINKER: You remember you signed a contract agreeing to pay for missed appointments because I can’t charge the insurance company. So I have to bill you my regular fee.
JPG: What missed appointments?
SHRINKER: There was the time we planned on the phone meeting because you had to work. Then you cancelled because they changed the lunchtime. And, then there was the time you were sick.
JPG (Thinking): She’s charging me because I was sick? What they fuck is this? Am I being hustled? I knew this bitch was crooked – why did I sign that fucking contract! Fuck! I never should have come here. I knew she was fucked when I got here. I should have switched – why didn’t I switch?)
JPG (looking every which way): How much?
SHRINKER: Ninety-six dollars.
Silence.
JPG (Speaking to himself): This was a bad idea.
Silence.
JPG: This is bullshit. You’re bullshit. Therapy is bullshit.
And it went on from there. W eek later, after I cancelled therapy, I was hit again and again. Now I wonder if I made the wrong choice. The only thing keeping me out of that fucking office is pride. And I’m not going back to that uncaring bitch.
I’ve been turned out and tricked. I feel like I’m going through withdrawals. My world is turning to shit and there’s no one who I can talk to. No one with the answers, or can help me find my own solutions. But, then, neither did she. She sat in that fucking chair dozing off, injecting her into my thoughts and meanings. She was my pimp, my mental Iceberg Slim, whop told me what I needed to here. Just enough to keep me on the corner, walking the point, her fine coco butter man-bitch.
I feel like Michael J. Fox at the end of Bright Lights, Big City. I love that movie. Its one of Michael’s best, personifying a decade and preaching the trails of a writer. The protag is Jamie Conway, a boy from Kansas who moves to New York with his young wife to become a writer, and nabs an editing job at a prestigious magazine. His dream is to wrote the next great novel, but he gets sidetracked by drugs and the eighties club scene. His wife, Amanda, played by Phoebe Cates, hits it big as a model and dumps Jamie when she realizes he’s a wash. That’s when the story starts, Jamie’s lost his wife (she’s in Paris on a photo shoot and hasn’t returned), can’t write, avoiding his father on the anniversary of his mother’s death from cancer, and obsessed with articles of a coma baby in The Post. Eventually, he loses his editing job, the last thing he had. Jamie climaxes on cocaine, alcohol, and literally runs away from his brother on the streets of New York. Finally, he learns his wife has returned from Paris and gets to see her. Everything becomes clear to him. His wife and drug supplying, club hopping friend are the same, parasites looking to feed on the dreams of the hopeful until they destroyed them. Jamie is born again. He welcomes thoughts of his mother he avoided for days. He kills off his former self by reading his stylish sunglasses for a loaf of fresh baked bread, just like his mother used to make. The film ends with Jamie sitting on a pier, watching the sun rise behind the Statue of Liberty, thinking: “Take it slow. You have to learn everything all over again, but it’ll be different this time.”
The last shot is the cover The Post with the headline: “Coma Baby Lives.”
I love that fucking movie. And that’s how I feel. I’m Jamie, forced to learn everything all over again. I’m Jim Carroll, fighting the stink of the horse and sewers. Still reaching form basketball dreams. I’m Pony Boy, wishing the word would just accept one another, watching a sunset of gold from a barn window.
I’m JPG, and I’m not dead yet.
Bright Lights Big City
(Reed)
Bright lights, big city
Gone to my baby's head
Bright lights, big city
Gone to my baby's head
I'd tried to tell the woman but she doesn't believe a word I
said
Go light pretty baby... gonna need my help some day
It's all right pretty baby...gonna need my help some day
You're gonna wish you listened to some of those things I said
Go ahead pretty baby
Oh, honey knock yourself out
Go ahead pretty baby
Oh honey knock yourself out
I still love you baby cause you don't know what it's all about
Bright lights, big city
Gone to my baby's head
Bright lights, big city
Gone to my baby's head
It started when I lost my home and just got worse from there. From my kids getting sick, which kids will do, to paying over a grand in car maintenance, on a vehicle that isn’t even mine. Its as if I’m overdrawn on my credit of good fortune and fates coming to take payment from my ass.
Today I did something I haven’t done, ever. I locked my keys in my car. Before that, I nicked a chunk of plastic from my $350 Sony PSP just two weeks after exchanging it because the original purchase had dropped pixels. It shouldn’t bother me, but it does. One scratch and I can’t look at it again. All I see is that fucking scratch.
One thing after another…
The first week in my new place and we had a gas leak, water leak, an ant invasion – and these were resilient motherfuckers too – and our water heater has gone out three times in two months. My car has spent a month in the shop, and when I picked it up it had a nail in the tire, no gas, and the check engine light came on only 24hrs post.
There is no end in sight…
My brand new shirts shrunk. My son broke my laptop’s key board, got sick, needed breathing treatments, and my daughter might go from her high GPA school to low GPA Latino school down the block, across from the projects. My allowance has gone from $400 per check to $200, just as gas prices are nearing $4 a gallon. Now I must get a second job.
Did I mention I was kicked out of my home, where I lived for six years. Where my children were born, and we were under rent control? And my own father, who had an apartment we could use, was going to charge me $1100 rent, when all my other siblings live rent-free.
I think I’m going to die.
I’ve had pains in my left arm. My eyelids twitch uncontrollably. I’m tired, angry, and owe my ex-shrink over $200 in missed appointments because I was sick and working.
Monday, April 17th 12:05pm
JPG enters Dr, Shrinker’s office, greets her, and sits in the usual chair.
He breathes heavily.
JPG: I don’t know, Doc. I’m so tired –
SHRINKER: Maybe your tired because of your overdue balance?
JPG: What?
SHRINKER: Have you read your last two invoices?
JPG: No, I thought there was no need. I’m paid up.
SHRINKER: You remember you signed a contract agreeing to pay for missed appointments because I can’t charge the insurance company. So I have to bill you my regular fee.
JPG: What missed appointments?
SHRINKER: There was the time we planned on the phone meeting because you had to work. Then you cancelled because they changed the lunchtime. And, then there was the time you were sick.
JPG (Thinking): She’s charging me because I was sick? What they fuck is this? Am I being hustled? I knew this bitch was crooked – why did I sign that fucking contract! Fuck! I never should have come here. I knew she was fucked when I got here. I should have switched – why didn’t I switch?)
JPG (looking every which way): How much?
SHRINKER: Ninety-six dollars.
Silence.
JPG (Speaking to himself): This was a bad idea.
Silence.
JPG: This is bullshit. You’re bullshit. Therapy is bullshit.
And it went on from there. W eek later, after I cancelled therapy, I was hit again and again. Now I wonder if I made the wrong choice. The only thing keeping me out of that fucking office is pride. And I’m not going back to that uncaring bitch.
I’ve been turned out and tricked. I feel like I’m going through withdrawals. My world is turning to shit and there’s no one who I can talk to. No one with the answers, or can help me find my own solutions. But, then, neither did she. She sat in that fucking chair dozing off, injecting her into my thoughts and meanings. She was my pimp, my mental Iceberg Slim, whop told me what I needed to here. Just enough to keep me on the corner, walking the point, her fine coco butter man-bitch.
I feel like Michael J. Fox at the end of Bright Lights, Big City. I love that movie. Its one of Michael’s best, personifying a decade and preaching the trails of a writer. The protag is Jamie Conway, a boy from Kansas who moves to New York with his young wife to become a writer, and nabs an editing job at a prestigious magazine. His dream is to wrote the next great novel, but he gets sidetracked by drugs and the eighties club scene. His wife, Amanda, played by Phoebe Cates, hits it big as a model and dumps Jamie when she realizes he’s a wash. That’s when the story starts, Jamie’s lost his wife (she’s in Paris on a photo shoot and hasn’t returned), can’t write, avoiding his father on the anniversary of his mother’s death from cancer, and obsessed with articles of a coma baby in The Post. Eventually, he loses his editing job, the last thing he had. Jamie climaxes on cocaine, alcohol, and literally runs away from his brother on the streets of New York. Finally, he learns his wife has returned from Paris and gets to see her. Everything becomes clear to him. His wife and drug supplying, club hopping friend are the same, parasites looking to feed on the dreams of the hopeful until they destroyed them. Jamie is born again. He welcomes thoughts of his mother he avoided for days. He kills off his former self by reading his stylish sunglasses for a loaf of fresh baked bread, just like his mother used to make. The film ends with Jamie sitting on a pier, watching the sun rise behind the Statue of Liberty, thinking: “Take it slow. You have to learn everything all over again, but it’ll be different this time.”
The last shot is the cover The Post with the headline: “Coma Baby Lives.”
I love that fucking movie. And that’s how I feel. I’m Jamie, forced to learn everything all over again. I’m Jim Carroll, fighting the stink of the horse and sewers. Still reaching form basketball dreams. I’m Pony Boy, wishing the word would just accept one another, watching a sunset of gold from a barn window.
I’m JPG, and I’m not dead yet.
Bright Lights Big City
(Reed)
Bright lights, big city
Gone to my baby's head
Bright lights, big city
Gone to my baby's head
I'd tried to tell the woman but she doesn't believe a word I
said
Go light pretty baby... gonna need my help some day
It's all right pretty baby...gonna need my help some day
You're gonna wish you listened to some of those things I said
Go ahead pretty baby
Oh, honey knock yourself out
Go ahead pretty baby
Oh honey knock yourself out
I still love you baby cause you don't know what it's all about
Bright lights, big city
Gone to my baby's head
Bright lights, big city
Gone to my baby's head
posted by QABBAL at 4:03 AM
2 Comments:
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