INTERIOR HIGHLAND PARK

I am rolling through piss and shit, what a waste of time. Meanwhile the kids are growing up without a dad. It’s not my fault mom’s a whore. Always was a whore. Will always be a whore. I need to get out of this room and away from this drum circle.

I’m sick inside the part of me that manages my whole life. It’s rotting, and loose and full of shit. Outside the house the drum circle keeps pounding. It’s not a holiday I can think of, I don’t understand what’s happening. It sounds like forty people are pounding out a beat on buckets. I feel confused and unstable. I go to the door and listen to the drums, but I can’t see them. It might be a marching band. It sounds very far away, but it’s too loud. 

I open Instagam and reply to the story of a writer I don’t know very well.

“I miss u guys” I say, and hit send.

I am at an all time low. I do not want anything. I soak up the feeling because it’s something to do. Sometimes I just want to soak in the worst things, I don’t care what it is. I don’t care who she is. I don’t care who you are, reading this.

Go take a bath in the LA River and wash your whole body in it, put your head back and let it fill up your ears. I have to get out of here. I head to my car and start driving. Los Angeles at night is useless, but it’s where I live. If I left I’d feel the same way anyway, so why change the background again.

Driving a car gives me something to do. Something to focus on, signaling and moving, and checking my phone while I’m driving, as if one thing could turn all of this around.  

“At the bottom of the refresh, is you” someone said to me once.

Thirty-five minutes later I am staring up at a bright white silver marquee that reads “Dog Man the Musical” outside the Kirk Douglas Theater in Culver City. I always drive to the places that make me feel the most on the outside. That make me feel kind of terrible. My mouth is open and I feel asleep on my feet. The box office is beautiful like an old airstream, carved out of aluminum silver - but the place has not seen any real action for 35 years. The “Country Diner Mart” looks more like a laundromat with the lights off, the palm trees out front are all dying. Sound is blasting at me from a red pickup truck driven by a small Mexican guy. The bass is buzzing his license plate. “If you don’t know, now you know N-I-G-G-A…” I move my head to it without thinking, I’m tired and my body feels too skinny. The Starbucks is open but I don’t want to smell the floor cleaner they use on every surface so I keep walking. The Christmas decorations are in full effect and glistening.

I pass the “Wild Child” gym and family space, I pass the “SoulPlay” yoga studio. My throat hurts and feels infected. Once I find food I’ll look for an urgent care. I can’t afford to get sick, it makes moving around difficult. A text comes in from Katy: 

“found some boars head chicken in the fridge. didn’t look at the expiration date. ate 3 slices. went to put the bag back and saw that it was purchased november 27th and only good for 3-5 days. i just puked so hard that chicken came out of my nose.”

I want to feel good. I want someone to tell me something. I don’t care what, convince me. Nobody knows the whole thing anyway, I just need someone to convince me. I like stuff that give me some security. A black negligee on the floor wrapped up in your wet underwear dropped just where you left them.  I’m sick - bad blood is always put right back back in, I am time released to hate you. I am already moving on. But there’s no drum circle in Culver City, so I’m ahead by one.