Wednesday, June 13, 2018

this unholy place



I recognize the life I chose to live is somewhat on the eccentric side; categorized a pariah. Even by my peers. Once heralded as a freethinker, an adventurer, a sexual outlaw. Now, I am hated, despised, spat upon.
In this New Millennium based on paranoia, judgment, hatred, skepticism, and solidarity, I am more than a dying breed. My ilk are considered extinct. Perhaps the only option is to fade into obscurity.
Nope. I will remain diligent. I will not change. As a matter of fact - fuck you. Fuck all of you. Quite frankly, I have grown weary living by your approval, by your boring ass, social accepting, politically correct standards. I will step out of this quivering, frightened flesh in which I have placed myself and abide by my own standards, my rules mired in what you term filth and sexual perversion. I'll revel in it, bath in it, suck the marrow from it.
With that out of my system, let’s move on, shall we? I am in Tucson for the time being sorting out past maladies and insolvencies: paying the piper, so to speak. I had a meet with the shelter’s caseworker and been allotted, beginning July 1st, an apartment. The program consists of them – the party in the first part – in paying for the deposit and first three month’s rent with me – the party of the second part – forking out 30% of my pay after the third month free and gratis and with them paying the rest. Sounds too good to be true? Probably is. Yet, I am going to hang around Tucson to see how it pans out. If it falls through, I definitly will move on...
Two facts about Tucson come to mind:
It is a lesbian hub. Ambling down 4th Avenue, Tucson's equivalent to Hillcrest or West Hollywood or Castro Street, I was stupefied at the amount of frumpy boot wearing, checkered shirt sporting lesbians who clomped up and down the boulevard. Almost all the caf├ęs, book stores, and vendors were teeming with stubby mulleted denizens. I was filled with a sense of imposing dread. This is definitely a lezbo controlled community.
Second thing. Hopping the bus to and fro, I have observed the general population has no fashion sense what so ever. Over-sized t-shirts (with the never ever cool 70’s band logo on the front), khaki shorts, and Velcro strapped sandals. Almost everyone gives the impression of being a deranged Vietnam vet or perhaps most commonly, a meth addicted hobo who just rolled out of a dumpster. A look that is tre chic, I suppose, for sloppy desert dwellers.
Nearly every city bus line I had taken at least once a drunken Native American had stumbled on and luck would have it, always sat with me.
"I hate fucking white people!" One hissed halitosis and beer into my appalled face.
“How’s that working out for you?” I would say, me unblinkingly meeting his unfocused, squinting gaze.
“Fuck you…” He passes out onto the dirty floor while pissing himself.
“No. It’s obvious you are the one who's fucked.” I mumble as I watch the trickle of pungent urine make its way along the carriage floor until it pooled under the sandal covered foot of some bloated lesbian.
When I first arrived in this town I always felt overdressed and self-concerned. I still do. These people can use some tips on dressing in public. Then again, it is acceptable for these assholes – these fucking proto-hipsters – to walk around a store in their fucking flannel pajamas and slippers.
This society as a whole is doomed….

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