It’s a miracle that I didn’t rip anyone on the sadbrickantfarm to shreds today. I really did not want to be around people who do that fucking phony, moronic dance every goddamn day like that’s who they really are (but they’re not or they wouldn’t need to spend so much money on their costumes, their cars and their entertainment; do you think if they all really wanted to play that way they would spend so much time complaining, gossiping and trashing everybody else about it out in public like they grew up in a barn?).
But thanks to the Spinster, now I have protection – I mean, from saying what I really think even though I know damn well it doesn’t matter and won’t get me out of the trap any sooner, anyway.
A skinny black woman with white-streaked long hair that dried that way and no makeup, black leather pants and cowboy boots and superdark Wayfarers, not to mention the New York stare for which I’ll be eternally grateful, whips out a Moleskin and mechanical pencil and starts drawing realistic (naked, of course) figures on the train, on the bus, waiting for the train, waiting for the bus. For some reason, that has the opposite effect of gravity, even in San Francisco, and people move away and try not to stare. It’s fabulous.
It is fabulous to have more room for the next 660 days.