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.    


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