Everybody But You
Thia Sexton – Musician and Author
The only thing more depressing than being too stupid to live, is feeling smarter than the voice on the other end of the Suicide Prevention Hotline.
I’m told we pick our partners to complete ourselves. I guess that’s true. I’ve never owned a washer and dryer.
New York was where I learned about something called “MISPLACED ANGER.”
Life begins to feel like a movie when flashing red lights are chasing you and you’ve never so much as ignored a parking ticket. Veins fill with the adrenaline of Tom Cruise in a chase scene as you careen in and out of alleyways to outrace the cops. Eventually Tom forsakes you for the next big attempt to revive his career, and thus undrugged, a hazy reality seeps back into your consciousness. I stopped the car.
SWF looking for SMRBL (Single Male Raised by Lesbians)
How did this happen? My mind had become an un-weeded garden.
Some people might think our conversation too explicit for mere strangers, but I’d often heard New Yorkers described as “COLORFUL” and “IN-YOUR-FACE.”
The character’s joie de vivre oozed from every paper pore.
Small town life felt as foreign as a new language. A language like French that trips off your tongue as you feel your Self differently.
Like Christopher Columbus, it seemed I’d made an error in my calculations.
Doesn’t everyone read books starting with the last chapter first, to make sure they don’t get too attached in case someone dies?
But the final line that should never be crossed under any circumstance: TOO STUPID TO LIVE.
Yep, I crossed it.
The brilliant author and I are quiet friends having silent conversations.
I run to the market for distraction during these times. Placing myself in line behind large families of shoppers allows ample time to peruse magazines I’m too snotty to admit I read. You know the ones: PEOPLE, US . . . EVERYBODY BUT YOU.
Some neighbors get to know each other over coffee. Others, you know…
We were very different Flavors of Fucked-Up.
What’s next after flunking LESBIAN and STRAIGHT?
Castillian (Spanish) was like lisping for the BATTLETOADS of video games, with nemeses everywhere. Only “C”s and “Z”s are lisped, a lisp on “S” is dodged under pain of death. For a while I lamely limped along lisping every conceivable consonant, till my tired tongue finally figured out what went where.