August 2nd, 2003

hairstyles of the tyrannical and islamic

i am dippity- doing persia mohammad persia's mane into fanciful big statements- i've fanned it out on the sides like a prissy pointy lion . sometimes i just mohawk it down the center.

we're listening to the del rubio triplets. soon "the neutron dance" will be on and persia will run from my busy comb because i know she'll want to dance.

the days would pour down like thick gel liquid napalm. that fucking song always reminds me of being the the hospital- sitting in the day room putting together puzzles and not speaking, not communicating to the ' milieu' therefore damaging everyone else's theraputic environment.

the same 5 songs are always on the radio which is always on. ' the neutron dance'," i wanna know what love is"," drive" and several things from the first madonna album. everything is white -noised over and rather blankly conceived. i wanted to kill myself and failed . i'm stranded. i should be dead- why the fuck am i listening to the pointer sisters , pushing together jagged bits of a deer's antlers while depressed drug addicts stare at me? when i do speak it's completely evil and they seem to enjoy it.

the MHAs drag me out to some group meeting where some strung- out newly-returned-to-the-bin bitch is feeling sorry for herself and telling everyone how it sucks ' out there' and they'd better just give up because they'll never make it.

" And does anyone have a responce to that?"

" Oh yeah i do.", i pony up and they're all excited that i had finally begun interacting in our collective ' healing', " You seem like a completely selfish hardass bitch, but, in a way, i think that's kind of hot."

it's decided that i'm far too ' sick' to participate in group therapy.

next, because im awake all the time and cant sleep i pipe prince's 'darling nikki' into the diningroom at 6AM while all the old people are having breakfast ( the young depressed drug addicts dont get up until forced to later). prince yammering on about screwing really seems to wake them up. oatmeal is sputtered about- some of these people had been so drugged up they barely seemed to move. now theyre all worked up to a fine lather. i have at last aided the milieu, contributed, but cause the music room to be locked and now a MHA trails me like an errant piece of toilet paper on the bottom of a shoe.

eventually, i lose the tail. the hardass bitch and i fuck in the hospital chapel and in a car in the parking lot.

redemption isn't pretty. i was pretty nasty, fairly malevolent. perhaps it's what kept me alive. could it be that's how i was redeemed?