Notes on the Party

     I’ve been to a million of em, and I have never seen anything remotely comparable to what I saw last night.  I felt like I was in a movie.  And for the first time in–God! YEARS!–I actually had a little performance anxiety.  Those women were off…the…chain. I felt like I should have asked for their autographs or something.  I wanna hire them for myself–and I don’t even like girls!  And the guests!  And the sets!  


       Guests had to pay a hundred bucks just to get in the door.  Let me tell you: money well spent.  


     At least it broke me out of my alcoholic death-spiral of terror a little bit.  The shit I witnessed last night was pretty distracting, to say the least.  I was so astonished that I must have looked a little bit like a tourist from PoDunk, Oklahoma (which, I guess, isn’t too far from the truth) because on two different occassions  I was approached by a woman who worked there and asked if I was enjoying the party (I was) and whether I’d like a drink (uh, no thanks)–they thought I was a guest.  


       I think I am going to have to brush up on my skill set to be successful there.  Like, I need to learn how to fly, and shoot laser death-rays from my eyeballs, and how to safely set people on fire.  They have training sessions on a regular basis where the management brings in instructors from the magic school in the Harry Potter movies.  


      Wow.


      I took a bunch of photos but I don’t want to publish any of them until I see the ones that are going to be published on the website or used for promotional purposes.


      Oh yeah, something else happened–it’s kind of personal, but what the hell.  After crying and eating gummi bears on the train, I no longer have any dignity or reputation to lose.  I finally got my period for the first time in months.  So I am thinking that maybe that utterly wretched emotional state might have been augmented by hormone fluctuation.  I don’t want to promote any sexist ‘women’s hormones make they unstable’ bullshit, but PMS really can make you a little blue.  I haven’t been menstruating much, so I don’t think about it.  Starvation makes you blue, too.  So does booze.  YAAAAAY TRIFECTA!!! MISS MARGO WINS!  Wait–what’s my prize?   

Miss Margo’s Relapse II: Fear and Loathing at THE SUPERSTUDIO

      After a nap and a spring roll, I no longer want to die.  My enthusiasm for life is minimal, but hopefully the worst of the crisis has passed.


     This was the shittiest 72-96 hours I’ve lived since…well, since I STOPPED DRINKING.  I guess that is why I STOPPED DRINKING in the first fucking place.  


    A month ago I was TyRANTosaurus Margo, and now look at me, crying on the train whilst inhaling candy and wishing I was dead.  What changed…?  Oh yeah, vodka and divorcing myself from humanity.  Not necessarily in that order.  But you get the picture.  


     Yes, I am trying to express my sense of humor–that means I am not emotionally dead–it is pathetic and awful, but funny, to cry and eat gummis on the train and go home and put velcro rollers in your hair.  


      Seriously, though–seriously, seriously–if I don’t fix myself, I will die by my own hand.  Eventually.


      I have known that for some time. 


       This isn’t something I should be thinking or writing about after the weekend I’ve just gone through…


        I need to refocus.  Adjust my aim.  Landlord’s still not paid, and I have rage to spare.  SOMEONE IN THIS CITY WANTS IT.


       But I didn’t go to school for so many years to live in the underworld.  

Miss Margo’s Relapse II: Fear and Loathing on the Train

    Well, I went to see the Grad Director, and I guess that it went well because they told me things that I need to do.  I wasn’t told NO, I was told what I need to do, so I guess that is affirmative–things could be okay.

     One person I am friendly with called me and we talked on the Quad.  That was nice.

     At the train station I was so hungry that I bought some gummi bears.  I was eating them on the train ride home.  I was so overwhelmed and scared that I started crying.  I could not help it.  I tried not to, and I tried to look normal, but I was still leaking tears.  I looked up and saw this young black guy with a textbook looking at me.  He looked concerned, so I put my hair down (I was wearing it up) and let it fall around my face.  Then I sat there leaking tears and snarfing down gummi bears like a nutcase psychopath.  It was so embarassing.  I hate to cry and I don’t show negative emotions in public.

    Now I have a few hours to get my shit together and then I have to make myself SUPERPRETTY and go to work at a party in the SUPERSTUDIO.  The very thought makes me want to barf all over the place.  I want to suck down a bottle of Scotch, but I know that would just make everything WORSE.

       I have to drag myself out of this, but I am so frightened and miserable.

Miss Margo’s Relapse: Fear and Loathing in New York

Update 11 AM:  Argh–shall I wear my best, most formal suit?  Or will that make me look affected?  I don’t wanna look like I’m going to a petition the Supreme Court…and I don’t want to look like a 10-year-old dressing up for Church, either. 
     I guess I ought to wear what fits me best these days.  Which is…nothing.  It’s all too big.
      This one suit–navy blue, pinstriped, purchased in San Francisco, cost a thousand bucks–was a gift to me when I graduated.  I was in the best shape of my life.  Now, the trousers are too big.
     Well, this was what I wanted–and I got it.  I EARNED it.  And the price was very, very high.
      Caveat Emptor, baby.  Caveat fucking Emptor. 
    Sick sick sick


     *                  *                    *               *                 * 
    You know, it occurred to me this morning, while finishing the last of my Fiber 1 cereal (yes, I eat the cereal made for people in nursing homes and hospice…it is bland and low-calorie enough for me to be able to eat without wanting to die), that the stuff has the appearance and texture of Meow Mix cat food.  Once, I spent the night in jail, and I remember that the breakfast cereal served to me closely resembled dry cat food (I declined to eat it, and gave it to my cellmate).  I wonder if it was Fiber 1.  If so, that would be blackly ironical.

 Yesterday, I had one of the weirdest sexual experiences of my life.  I know that I never get too explicit in my blog postings, but take my word for it, if I describe something as being “very weird,” that is saying a lot.  This ain’t Miss Margo’s first rodeo.  Weird is my stock in trade.  To quote Hunter S. Thompson: “When the going gets weird, the weird turn pro.”  


     I have an appointment with the grad director of my program this afternoon.  I must appear to be cogent, collected, and purposeful.  While I would rather die than face the music right now, the fact is that my life is not going to change or get better until I commit to this.  The choice is so clear that even my frazzled brain can see it: get the credential, or don’t.  If I want it–and I do–I have to work with this wretched institution that I loathe so much it makes my hair bleed.  I have this paper from a fortune cookie on my desk:  Confucius say: if man want harvest, man must first shovel ton of shit.  


      Then I have to come home and make myself drag-queen feminine for a party at THE SUPERSTUDIO tonight.  As you might infer from my tone, I am not in a festive mood.  Whatever.  Tap dance till your shoes smoke, kid.   


      I’d burn everything down, but depression has made me unmotivated. 


      Folks, you’re hearing it first: I’ve relapsed, spectacularly and completely.  Wow, that was fast.  My brain is all fucked up again and I am full of fear and loathing and I DO NOT WANT TO SPEAK TO ANOTHER HOMO SAPIEN EVER AGAIN!!!


      Bleh!  Now I have to go pick up my suit from the dry cleaner’s.    

The SUPERSTUDIO–When Glamazons Attack!

Update 9:50 PM–I finally turned some money at the 11th hour.  Individual was a douchebag, but whatever–I know how to handle douchebags.
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      Just finished my first shift at Superstudio.  Dude, my initial impressions have been totally confirmed.  The last time I was around so many stunning 6-foot blondes, I WAS IN AMSTERDAM!!!

      I am dirty blonde (emphasis on dirty, hardy har har), which is not blonde enough in this business, so I’m passing myself off as auburn-haired.  Not really a lie; hair is actually reddish.

     Whatever–I’ve got a fashionably scrawny bod and no tattoos and when you meet me, I do not sound demonstrably insane.  At least one of my colleagues here is cracked.  The manager is a ferocious terror-inspiring Russian.

      I’ve fabricated my background to protect myself, taken a new name–epic compartmentalization.  Now I just have to keep my stories straight.  Juggling all this is quite a trick.  Fortunately, I have a lot of practice.  I’ve been a world-class liar since I was a little girl.  That’s one of the worst things junkie parents do to their kids, I think–make liars out of them.  It is a skill, though.  A useful talent to have.  But not conducive to good mental health.  Or relationships.  WHAT relationships, haha.

      The Surgeon is coming by tomorrow.  I have to keep him snowed.  God, why did I ever let him in my apartment…?  You know, he found out where I lived somehow–he’s never told me how–I never gave him my address.  Just a little bit longer.  And no marks–I have to keep my hide pristine. Or at least, get it there–still have a few bruises from last time. Not easy when you’re Caspar-the-Friendly-Ghost pale, terminally clumsy, and you crave to be beaten.

     No money yet.  Intense competition, different clientele, have to hide my past so it’s like I’m starting out new.  I’m not stopping till I mollify the landlord, 14-hour days, whatever it takes.  Tapdance till the shoes smoke. Note to self–MUST TACKLE BACON pronto

I Feel Like Bill the Cat (II)

      Fucking insomnia!  I feel like Bill the Cat.  I wrote about feeling like Bill the Cat here.  This is a pic of Bill the Cat, in case you need visual aid, good reader:

       I fell asleep for a few hours and the came awake, startled.  I dreamed majorly weird dreams.  Bad tone.  I dreamed that I was a little golden-colored parrot flying through the streets of New York.  I was being chased.  Eventually, I was caught and put into a cage for Guinea pigs.  


     Well, you don’t have to be Sigmund Freud to figure that one out!  (BTW, I used to be utterly skeptical of dream interpretation–or the idea that the subconscious really exists.  Sounded like a lot of woo supernatural horseshit to me.  I BELIEVE IN MATH.  Or empiricism.  Anyway, I have reversed myself about my position regarding dreams.  I kept a dream journal for two years and then did a qualitative analysis on it.  The data strongly indicates that my dreams are germane to the problematic issues of my life.)


     Arrrgh, now I’m awake and tired but I cannot sleep and there are drunk people on the sidewalk fighting and shouting for cabs and throwing up.  I have to give myself a manicure and pedicure for work at THE SUPERSTUDIO tomorrow and my landlord wants his $$$ and I gotta meet grad director in 48 hours and I have to give myself  a crash refresher course in Francis Bacon for another student and my little betta fish Rooster needs his water changed and I HATE MY TORSO IT TAKES UP TOO MUCH SPACE and I need health insurance and I am moonbat crazy right now.


    What do I do, what do I do?  And on that note, I have two and a half college degrees–why am I even living this way?  


    I am not sober.  I need to ramp up my program.  

Employment Drama-rama

    My landlord is pissed, I have to meet with the grad director of my school next week, and I have to make a thousand dollars pronto.  More like $1500, actually.

    I am so stressed out that I can’t see straight.

    I made money editing a manuscript for another student, and gave an undergrad a crash course in David Hume (I am the David Hume of pain and suffering, haha).  But it’s not enough, not enough…

     Have been hitting the Craigslist jobs ads.  Six applications; half white collar and half…not.  I just got back from an interview with a House–it’s a famous place, much ritzier than the other Houses I’ve worked at.  It’s huge, it’s a factory, and you have to be beautiful and very skilled to get in there.  It has a tremendous reputation, not all positive, and I don’t know what is true and what is not.  Supposedly, the management are ogres.  But I have no idea, really.

      There is also an exclusivity clause in the employment contract.  If I get in, I have to quit at the other place I’m at.  I’m not making enough money there, but the management is great and I have total autonomy.  I don’t know if, by doing this, I’m trading up–or jumping from the frying pan into the fire.

     New place is also…more public.  Even if I do the minimum amount of self-promotion that they want me to do, it’s still more than I feel comfortable with.  The Surgeon could find out.

      I signed up to work tomorrow.  I guess I’ll find out what it’s like then.  Oh my god, I have to be careful.

Donald Rumsfeld: Repulsive, yet Compelling

Update, Dec 11 4:30 AM
     Note to self:  Am I really speaking about myself here?

    I spent most of my adulthood hating members of the Bush administration so much that it made my hair bleed.  Good God, I’m so glad that’s over.  


   I was unusually fascinated by Donald Rumsfeld.  He reminds me a little bit of Robert McNamara (whom I blogged about here), except that McNamara had lots of IQ points on Rumsfeld (still no slouch in the IQ department).  I was glad when Bush fired Rumsfeld, but I must admit that a part of me was sorry that I wouldn’t be able to see Rumsfeld on the TV anymore.  The bastard was tremendously entertaining.  Even though I hoped he would die in a fire, I always enjoyed watching him.


    The first time I saw this, I thought it was real!  Rumsfeld is just that type of asshole.  Hostile and grotesque, yet witty.  Even charming, in a gross sort of way–like Satan, or Shakespeare’s Richard III (full disclosure: I’d probably have sex with him.  Once.):





“Simple, plain Clarence! I do love thee so that I will shortly send they soul to heaven, if heaven will take the present from our hands..!” 


HAHAHA!  Richard III is one of the all-time best Shakespeare villans–right up there with Iago–what a loathsome, sarcastic monster.  But funny, so funny!  He’s malformed in every way–physically, psychologically, morally–and yet, he retains a seductive power.  He charms almost everyone in his orbit, all to their detriment (his mother sees him for what he is).


  The way he gloats after he bags Lady Anne always gets to me: “Was ever woman in this humor wooed?  Was ever woman in this humor won?  I’ll have her; but I will not keep her long!”   


      The way Richard addresses the audience (viewer, in the film), admitting to us his true, bloody intentions, is one of Shakespeare’s great devices.  Richard tells us the awful truth about himself, but not to anyone else he interacts with in his life (the play).  We know how he is manipulating the people around him, but they don’t.  


     In this way, Shakespeare shows us how isolated Richard is.  He cannot confide in anyone in his life, and so he addresses the audience.  How very alone Richard is, and how wretched.  

A Map of the Pain (The Morning After)

     Got up and re-read yesterday’s blog post.  WOW, did I sound high. My mind was all over the place–fucking Sylvia Plath!  I haven’t thought about Sylvia Plath in years!  How’d I come up with that bit of poetry?  And more importantly–did I quote accurately (ha, ha)?


     To follow that, let’s hear from your friend and mine, my favorite poet, Walt Whitman: 


Do I contradict myself?
Very well, then, I contradict myself.
(I am large–I contain multitudes.)


      Exactly how I fell in love such a romantic poet, and Transcendentalism in general, I’ll never know.  My personality is mostly hard-headed, rational, unemotional.  I fancy myself a positivist.  Swoon over David Hume, and all that.  Loved stoicism; Marcus Aurelius.  


      But there is a something in my character…something incongruent with the rest.  Something extreme, radical, excessive, violent, illogical.  Like a streak of fantastical ore in the granite of my character.  


      I must get it from my father.  One of his gifts to me.  


      If I can harness it, it is a tremendous source of power–great talent.  


      If I can’t, it destroys me.  

A Map of the Pain

Read More

   The Surgeon came to see me.   I think he detects a difference in me, because he was in fine form.  


    I look like my pimp beat me with a baseball bat.


    Some detail, including photographs, after the jump.  Click at your own risk–probably not safe for work.  Or for lunchtime.  Here’s a taste:


        I debated for a bit about whether I ought to write about this, for obvious reasons.  Eventually, I figured that it’s my blog, I can do whatever I want.  And my new motto is, after all, “Transparency is a  regime value!”  


        So–it was an interesting afternoon.  It’s funny, the way your sense of time gets distorted.  


      I intended to work on a lit review this evening, but that’s just not going to happen (and fuck me–now that I think of it, I was supposed to go to a meeting at 6:30…argh!).  I probably couldn’t play a competitive game of Tic-tak-toe.  It really is the damndest thing, the way it wipes out the brain.  I mentioned it in passing here.  I didn’t drink or use drugs, but…in some ways, it’s not dissimilar.  


      Well, enough pussyfooting around, let’s take a look at the damage (well, some of it, anyway…can’t post my back, sorry):  

Yikes! The one on the left (WHICH one, ha,ha!..the reddest one) bled to the surface.

  
     Weird.  It didn’t hurt when it happened–well, wait, it hurt, but it didn’t feel bad.  


      Sure as hell doesn’t feel too good now, though.  Not that I’m complaining.  I have always maintained that marks are just the cost of doing business.  I am not squeamish, and I am not afraid of pain.  To quote Joe Henry: my flesh and blood is no more real to me/than what they seem. 


       Actually, go listen to the entire song.  It’s good.  Very romantic. At least, it is to me.  You, of course, may have a different perspective, good reader. 


      
     Anyway…where was I?  Oh, yes.  These photographs are very recent.  Oftentimes, I haven’t checked the condition of my hide until the morning after (how appropriate).  I remember these occasions very well.  Sometimes, I’d wake up in the night, in discomfort from rolling onto my back (or wherever).  I’d start awake, register the pain, roll over, and fall back asleep.  


      Then, in the morning, I’d roll out of bed and know immediately that I was injured.  Sometimes it got to be like a game–I’d stand up, rotate my limbs and my torso, try to estimate how severe it was, and where.  And then I would rush to the bathroom.  I remember it so clearly.  My feet on the cold tile floor, hand reaching for the light switch in the dark, my back to the mirror.  The great unveiling!  The big strip tease./Gentlemen, ladies/these are my hands/my knees./I may be skin and bone,/nevertheless, I am the same, identical woman.


     Plath is overrated (and I pity Ted Hughes tremendously), but she could turn a phrase.


       Afterwards, sometimes, I play the part of the forensics investigator.  I ask myself: where did that mark come from? Cause I can’t recall, for sure.  Take, for instance, this one: 

   Horseshoe-shaped; almost round.  What was that?  Belt buckle?  


       I’m still trembling.  Like I’d just lifted supersets at the gym, or done the 9-mile hike to the summit in Summertime.  Pushing to muscle failure.   


     My analyst says that I will have to give this up if I want real love with someone, but I don’t understand what that means.  It sounds to me like one of those old TV game shows, where the host asks, “Do you want what you have now…or would you rather exchange it for what’s behind Door #3?”  


       I had a modeling job scheduled for this coming Sunday.  NEVER MIND! 


       Explaining the marks is always a chore. Once, a good friend of mine (who knew the whole story) quipped that I could say I’d gotten the marks in a Bosnian rape camp.  Touche! Very witty, that.  Very witty.  I do miss my friend.