|Really bad good bad decisions.
||[Feb. 22nd, 2012|12:33 pm]
VIVA LA JOY.
So every floor now is in disarray with the glitter of a slow carnival; the Mardi Gras that leaves us blue-balled and still semi-broke if you're a blossoming drunk like the rest of us. Sparkles cover everything as we still try to remember what happened the night before, although we're still a little unsettled and dissatisfied. Where are our shoes and who's in the spot? There's four different sized dogs running around at my feet and I'm reminded that even when things aren't prime, they're still incredible. The mosquito eaters are out and the stinging caterpillars are breeding; the tourists are drunk but not enough to tip anything from a dumpy and disorganized act to the tightest and best-looking. I've got the shakes and three leftover beers while one roommate makes breakfast and the others sing old Weezer songs on the banjo. I don't know where my fuck buddy slept last night, nor do I think I really care; the sensation in the back of my chest is comparable to the sun shining through my window on this 40 degree day. I'm smiling through the feeling that I might vomit.
Things were less confusing in the off season, and I'm anxiously anticipating a return to it. You can't be loud enough in these crowds; not even at the climatic end to the million dollar song and you're slamming as hard as you can on the suitcase drum and singing until your voice is gone. You want everyone to see it the way that you do, but they never will. They'll never see the way the other street performers tip their hat at you as you walk by on your way to the store with $2.17 in your hand for a beer. They'll never know about the countless hours holding spots in the cold while Grandpa Elliott plays harmonica through an amplifier on the corner, blind as a bat but still tapping his foot and dancing around to the same old songs the next day. All they see is dirty, unshowered punks playing their instruments better than any beautiful people being payed millions to sound like shit, and they want to know where the band is from, not realizing that said question is a difficult one to answer. They smile and laugh and stand with their tiny black rectangles in front of their faces, completely oblivious to everything that's really going on outside of the screen on their future-phones, and I wish I could slap them and suddenly they'd see it the way we do on the other side, but then they might not tip me. So I remain a zoo animal doing tricks for food that might as well be dirt.
And oddly enough, if it wouldn't drive us all mad, I wish I could do it year-round. It's fast paced and completely surreal and every morning I wake up and my body pinches me and begs me to take it slow today but my mind is already out the door. There's no privacy, no stability, no constants or cushioning whatsoever. You fall madly in love with someone who showed up on your couch one morning and in a week they're gone, replaced by someone else equally as incredible and disorganized. You're propositioned for a threesome with two beautiful people you want to fuck but then are reminded that you have nowhere to do it without everyone you know hearing every thrust and every moan and every giggle and every weird sex sound that bodies make. It's 70 degrees in the day and 30 at night, and then you remember that the person you've shared your bed with for the last two months took their blanket back to their squat along with their dog who loved to sleep on your feet at night. We all know this, we all acknowledge it as part of our lives, and it doesn't even require a degree of acceptance, because in a way it's what we choose. To anyone else it might sound dreadful. But like I said, we smile all the way to the bank, and all the way to the bathroom floor. We prefer to be disheveled, unabashed spectacles in the most unique city in America. There's no fun in being a muggle.
Mardi Gras week, 2012.
New Orleans, Louisiana.
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