Wednesday, December 20, 2017

Fanfic: Sherlock Holmes and the Blank Generation pt 2

The next day I awoke to the sound of Doug shrieking… as well as some sort of slamming sound. It was a rather funny sound, his anguished cries. He sounded like a monkey or perhaps a rare tropical bird. If Douglas weren't my only friend I would've laughed. What a sound! I felt so at home. My brooding and nightmares and coldness were far less frightening than this. For the first time since returning from the war I wasn't the weirdest person in site.
"Fucking matches! Ohhh shhit, that hurt! Fuck! Ow!" Doug screamed.
Groggily, I finally opened my eyes. Doug was jumping up and down, while obsessively rubbing his right thumb and screaming random obscenities. The "slamming" I'd heard was the sound of his sneakers hitting the poor, unsuspecting floorboards. It occured to me that they were the same beat-up Converse shoes he's been wearing the day before. Also like yesterday, he had on a pair of skinny jeans. I've never seen someone move around that much - and in such panic - in pants so tight. It was astounding. He also wore a short-sleeved tee shirt with the amusing words "villain, I have done thy mother" printed on them. As he flailed foolishly, I noticed that the veins on his arms were scarred. Heroin, I thought. Perhaps it wasn't wise to trust the first person you met someplace, no matter how kind.
"What's happened?" I asked, slowly moving to a sitting position.
"Matches. I burned my fucking finger!" Doug replied, in agony.
I furrowed my brow. "What do you need matches for, anyhow? The sunlight is already-"
"I need fire to cook up," he said, sharply.
"Cook up what? Breakfast?"
A look of great surprise appeared on Doug's face, replacing the look of (somewhat exaggerated) pain. He stopped jumping and stared at me in wonder.
"Oh my God. You're so innocent. I love you."
I wasn't quite sure how to respond, so I stared at him vaguely. He stared back at me in amusement.
"You are a very green boy." He paused, then said: "Heroin. Smack. Horse. Junk. Skag, if you're a Brit. Cooking up is putting some in a spoon with saline, heating it, and then sucking it up with the needle. It's then injecting right in your arm. Whaaat, you've never met a junkie?"
"I have, though I pretended they weren't human," I told him without thinking. Then, I blushed.
"That's a mean thing to do," he replied, frowning.
Now I felt rather bad. "Look, Doug… I don't have anything against drug users. It's just that, when I was fighting in Vietnam, people died everyday. I had to think of my fellow soldiers as inhuman. If I treated them like humans I wouldn't have been able to deal with what was going on. The grief would've driven me insane. It didn't matter if those men were druggies, squares, blacks, whites, Jews, catholics, or anything. My ability to care about anyone had to be shut off."
Doug still looked a bit puzzled. Still, he managed to reply: "I understand, boy."
An awkward silence ensued.
Finally, I realized something. "You said I could stay here for a little while, yes?"
My new friend nodded. "I did."
"How soon is a while? When will you decide to, well, kick me out?"
"Whenever you want me to," he replied with a shrug.
"Well, I don't ever want to sleep on that sofa again," I said thoughtfully. "Can you help me find a hotel or something today?"
A wicked smile appeared on Doug's boyish face. "If you can help me prepare my morning fix."
And so, I helped him light two of the candles ("in case one goes out"). Then I watched him melt a bit of powder on a charred spoon and, with his trusty syringe, suck it through a stretched-out cotton ball. After poking around for a vein, he proceeded to inject the milky mixture. I'll never understand why people use narcotics. It's horrifying. Of course, he seemed to find it soothing. With a blissful, spaced-out smile on his face he collapsed into one of the chairs. As he did so I blew out the two candles.
For a moment he sat there struggling to breathe properly. I would've tried to help somehow if he didn't seem so nonchalant. It seemed that this breathlessness was
Finally, he spoke. "There's a newspaper… by the door. Many… people post ads… in the classifieds. There's always someone looking for a roommate."
An awkward silence ensued.
Finally, I realized something. "You said I could stay here for a little while, yes?"
My new friend nodded. "I did."
"How soon is a while? When will you decide to, well, kick me out?"
"Whenever you want me to," he replied with a shrug.
"Well, I don't ever want to sleep on that sofa again," I said thoughtfully. "Can you help me find a hotel or something today?"
A wicked smile appeared on Doug's boyish face. "If you can help me prepare my morning fix."
And so, I helped him light two of the candles ("in case one goes out"). Then I watched him melt a bit of powder on a charred spoon and, with his trusty syringe, suck it through a stretched-out cotton ball. After poking around for a vein, he proceeded to inject the milky mixture. I'll never understand why people use narcotics. It's horrifying. Of course, he seemed to find it soothing. With a blissful, spaced-out smile on his face he collapsed into one of the chairs. As he did so I blew out the two candles.
For a moment he sat there struggling to breathe properly. I would've tried to help somehow if he didn't seem so nonchalant. It seemed that this breathlessness was
Finally, he spoke. "There's a newspaper… by the door. Many… people post ads. There's always someone... looking for a roommate."
I flipped to the classifieds. Then, I skimmed through it for a few minutes. Soon enough I spotted one that really stood out.
"Here's something!" I said, pointing to the ad.
"Whatsit say?"
"Apparently someone called Sherlock Holmes needs a rather specialized roommate. 'In search of a young man who can endure hours of droning violins, lift at least fifty pounds, and not be bothered by hypodermics scattered everywhere. An interest in the Stooges and the Velvet Underground always helps'." I laughed, somewhat nervously, then added: "As long as he's joking about the needles, this sounds good."
That's when I noticed that Doug's eyes were as wide as saucers (though his pupils remained pin-pointed).
"Oh, he's serious. That bastard... is a total lunatic. Ha!"
"You know him?"
"Everyone does! He's fucking crazy… yeah, but he's also… useful."
"Useful?"
"Yes, he's a detective. Solves crimes… for junkies… musicians… criminal types. People who… can't… trust the cops.."
I looked down at the ad again. At the bottom there was a phone number - presumably Holmes'.
"Where's the nearest phone booth?" I asked, glancing back at Doug.
Much to my annoyance, he'd fallen asleep. That meant I'd need to find a phone myself.
After retrieving a few coins out of my jacket pocket I left the small apartment. As I began to walk down the stairs I heard a voice behind me. A woman's voice, in fact…
"Who the hell are you?"
Slightly bothered by the swearing, I turned around. There stood a pretty, Jewish-looking girl with a strangely sultry smile. Her dark hair didn't appear to be very clean and her dress was held together by safety pins (I later learned that this was considered fashionable). Of course, the shabbiness only added to her charm.
"Who are you?" I replied.
"My name is Mary and I live in the flat above Doug's." She eyed me with slight suspicion. "You're a friend of his, yes?"
"We only met yesterday, actually."
"And you're leaving already? Why, most people consider him rather charming! It's the boyish face, the false ditziness, and the girly haircut - if you ask me."
"I do find him charming and I'm not leaving," I told her. "No, I'm just going to look for a phone. There's someone I need to call."
Mary smiled brightly. "Oh, I've got a phone. Would you like to borrow it? I'll let you do so for free."
So I borrowed Mary's phone. The call was pretty short. Apparently nobody else had shown any interest in sharing a flat with Sherlock Holmes. This worried me slightly. Still, virtually anything was better than sleeping on Doug's sofa again. I told the man who'd picked up the phone - presumably Holmes - that I'd meet him outside the Hotel Chelsea at exactly twelve o'clock. Given that it was only nine or so, I had enough time to ask someone (probably Mary) where and what the Hotel Chelsea was.

Humor: Stealing Drugs is Not Actually Stealing

 A/N: On some level I did mean this. It's my half-kidding way of justifying the 'borrowing'.

I am a very honest girl. Secrets are something I have trouble with. This might be why I tell people when I'm high, even though that's an excellent way to get in trouble (most of my friends are law-abiding squares). It's definitely why I've only ever stolen one thing, back in the 7th grade. The 'thing' is question was a tacky, plastic model TARDIS the size of a salt shaker. It was actually really fascinating. You see, when you turned the little thingy on the back it made whooossshing sounds like the 'real' TARDIS. Cool, right? My friend Rowan kept it on a shelf in his bedroom. One day, a friend of ours (it was probably Luke) dared me to steal it. In an attempt to appear more impressive, partly because I was the only girl in our little gang, I did. Rowan never noticed.
Anyway.
Unlike the cliche junkie, I've never stolen anything to sell or pawn. I have, mind you, borrowed a number of pills without permission. Usually percocet, though I'm pretty sure there was the occasional vicodin or oxycodone at some point. The latter I found extremely boring.
That sounds like stealing, doesn't it? It's not. Honestly, it's a form of charity. Opioids are highly addictive and I don't want my granny to become an addict. Her health is bad enough as it is. Taking a few pills away from her - never more than four per bottle, that's my little rule - is helpful. The less optional pain meds she has the safer she'll be. Also, my dog Shadow is constantly munching on objects not meant to be consumed by anyone. Things like plastic bottles, those little packets of desiccant used to keep dog treats dry, and large wooden airplane models. If he got ahold of a bottle of poppy-based pills he might die. That means borrowing some of the drugs my father gets after dental surgeries keeps Shadow safe. It's not like Dad takes them anyway. The very idea of a relative taking 'mini heroin' really upsets her. That's why I never mention my hobby in front of her (even though I've spoken of it very near campus police officers). Hurting my Mom like that would be cruel.
I'm far kinder than 'proper' junkies, aren't I?

Monday, December 18, 2017

Fanfic/Story: Sherlock Holmes and the Blank Generation pt 1

‘Nam was a nightmare.
Sometimes I can’t even bring myself to think about it. None of it made any sense at the time. We were children, shipped across the globe to die. I was drafted at age 18. It was all a blur. One minute I was being checked over by a doctor, the next I was in a foreign country fighting for my life. I quickly learned not to get attached to anyone, or even memorize names. For the sake of my own sanity I became a near-sociopath.
After two years they brought me - and many others - home.
They sent me back to my parent’s house, though I only lasted about a week there. I knew I needed to start over. People didn’t look at me the way they had. I think some of the neighbors envied my family. Why had I survived, while so many others didn’t? Why hadn’t Jim Smith or Steven Harris returned?
To make matters worse I’d also became rather disruptive. It wasn’t even intentional, though my Dad seemed to think so. He called me weak. At night I tossed and turned, reliving the deaths of fellow soldiers. Everything startled me. I didn’t know who I was anymore. War changes people - especially the bright-eyed, innocent boys who do all the real fighting. None of us knew what we were getting into.   
Things weren’t working. I need to leave my family and find a new place to call home. Somewhere the old John had never visited. Somewhere in which the new John could live out his life. Somewhere people wouldn’t be bothered by the coldness and the paranoia.
And where did I go? New York City, obviously. Where else do outsiders and loners and all other oddities end up?
So, exactly two weeks after I’ve arrived in town, I took a bus to the city. Mother paid for the ticket and a few new shirts. Father didn’t even bother saying goodbye. I’d become to much of an embarrassment to him. If only the bastard had been there, too… scared every moment, surrounded by suffering. Squares became druggies and patriots deserted.
As the old bus steadily drove through town and farmlands, I began to think about what I’d do once we actually arrived in New York. At the time I had about $100 (mostly in cash). That wouldn’t last too long, though it would probably be enough for a few days. There was also the military pension. I still didn’t have that totally figured out, though. Not to mention it probably wouldn’t be enough to live on unless I shared, say, living expenses with someone.  
A roommate would be useful, I thought to myself.
At some point I fell asleep. For once I was not plagued with nightmares. This was certainly a good thing.
I awoke just as we arrived in the city. It was already quite late in the evening by then. Due to the darkness, I tripped over my own suitcase as everyone got off the bus. The ground was of unpleasant concrete. The palm of my right hand stung painfully and my left knee was skinned. Worst of all, my jeans were torn. I wondered if
“What the fuck are you doing on the ground, man?” asked a voice.  
I looked up to see a man with shaggy, almost-shoulder-length brown hair. Strangely enough he didn’t appear to be a hippie. No, hippies don’t wear black leather jackets and dark skinny jeans. He also didn’t seem much older than me. There was an oddly childish look to his face, a prankster’s gleam in his eye. Sort of like Iggy… yet girlier, sweeter. I’m not quite sure how to describe it.
“What’s your name, boy?” he asked, grinning like the Artful Dodger.
“Watson. John Watson,” I replied, sitting up. “Who are you?
“I go by many names...”
“What should I call you?”
“Doug.”
There was an awkward pause. Then, he knelt down and grabbed my right hand. Before I could respond in any way he’d pulled me into a standing position. That’s when I noticed that - though thin - he was clearly pretty strong.
“Thanks, Doug,” I said, a bit nervously.
    “You are welcome!”
Again, a pause.
Then…
“You don’t know of any nearby hotels, do you?” I asked.
Doug shook his head. “Not any good ones.”
“What do you mean?”
“This is the heart of New York City. Nobody gives a fuck about us anymore. The cockroach-exterminators and proper cleaning people have long since abandoned this godforsaken place. There are rats and shit like that everywhere. You must avoid them, young man.”
“How?”
“Stay with me, for now.”
I stared at him for a moment. Despite the jacket, he didn’t seem very dangerous. What harm could one guy do? Anyway, I knew that alienating people the moment I arrived probably wouldn’t be the greatest idea. This Doug guy seemed really nice.   
“I can carry your case, if you’d like,” Doug said, smiling happily.
“Just… don’t steal it, okay?” I replied, handing it over.
“Why would I ever do that?”
I didn’t bother answering, for fear of offending him.
Luckily, he didn’t seem interested in stealing my stuff. He happily led me down the street to a brownstone building only a few blocks from the bus stop. I followed him carefully up the steps. When we go to the door he handed me my suitcase, then unlocked it with a key hidden in his jeans. Quickly enough he’d unlocked it. We then walked up another set of stairs to the second floor. Here there was another door, which he unlocked with a different key.
“Home sweet home,” he said happily, as we stepped over the threshold.
It was a rather cramped little place. There was a sofa, a few mismatched wooden chairs, and a round rickety table. The only light sources were a (currently lit) lightbulb hanging precariously from the ceiling and an extremely grimy window. There were also a few unlit candles on the table. One of these was in a chipped tea cup. It was all rather strange.
There were two other doors, presumably leading to a bathroom and a bedroom.
“You can sleep on my sofa until tomorrow morning, Watson,” Doug told me. “I’m sure we’ll be able to find you more permanent lodgings tomorrow.”
I thanked him, then passed out on the sofa. It had been a long, long day… even with the little nap of mine.  

Sunday, December 17, 2017

Embarrassingly Short Post, 12/17

It's been a rather bad weekend for me - or good, depending on how you look at it. I found a bottle of percocet at my grandmother's house yesterday afternoon. The very sight of it was a bit distressing. So, yeah, I 'borrowed' four pills. I practically couldn't help it (or so I tell myself). After about 45 days of being sober/boring, I'm little miss troublesome again. Percocet isn't even that good!

It makes me feel slightly happier and calm, and it messes with my breathing somewhat. Boring. Now I want something stronger. Something derived from morphine (rather than whatever alkaloid oxycodone comes from). Something I probably shouldn't be interested in. What a brat I'm being. I'm not sure how to shake this mindset, mind. My one-time NA sponsor, who I haven't spoken to since early November, says it never goes away. Of course, reading William S. Burroughs and seeing those bottles at people's houses probably makes me worse. The former certainly induced dreams about 'scoring'. How ridiculous.

To keep myself from being naughty, and to give myself a project that doesn't involve obtaining/ingesting controlled substances, I'm going to write fanfiction again. Hopefully people will enjoy it.

I've begun a story. It's awfully short so far, alas.

Saturday, December 16, 2017

Map of a Random, Fictional Hotel



Diary Entry, 12/13/2017

A/N: I was reading through recent diary entries (of which there are few) and decided that this one looked interesting enough to post. Hopefully someone enjoys it. 
By the way, I censored out direct references to where I live. I don't want any stalkers - do I?


Dear Diary,
I fear, at this point, that the only way out is to marry. No employer in his right mind would hire me. My books don't sell well. Even if I do release a collection of letters (well, emails) I'll never make more than $5 per month. What a damned shame! Why must money be so crucial? It's really quite terrible, this society. Gold is known to drive men to do horrid things.

Does marrying for money count as a horrid thing? Perhaps. That's why I plan to marry for both financial and emotional stability. I'll play the role of the pretty sidekick in public. In private I'll be comforting and comforted wife. I'm no gold digger. No, I'm too kind. The man I'll one day marry will be lucky indeed. Well, I hope he will be. If not I'll never forgive myself.

Currently I'm working on meeting more people, teaching myself more civilized behavior, and trying to find a place as someone's mistress. My potential 'masters' (for lack of less revolting word) include a lovable ex-soviet, a self-proclaimed poetry fan, at least one Indian fellow, and a few men I've been debating politics with. They're all in their 30s-50s. I've spent most of the time speaking to the Russian and the poetry one. The former is currently married, the latter divorced. I have yet to meet either in person. Of course, we are making plans. I've suggested the -------- Gallery. I'm exceedingly fond of the Warhols housed there (primarily his absolutely electric self-portrait). Also, it's pretty 'central'. Anyone local can figure out how to get there easily.

  [...]

So, yes, I'll be meeting my men soon. That sounded awful - didn't it? They're not my men, I'm their girl. Well... I might be. Perhaps I'll end up hating every single one of them and have to start over.

 - M.

PS: Father brought home a box of Pilot Bread today. I've begun eating it with a bit of brown sugar and butter. What a treat!

PPS: I've just noticed that "adults are children who've sold out."

Oh how I wish to marry
Before my Youth is gone
Oh how I need security
Earned by Truth or Con

Painting: "Questioning Straight Edge"


I Felt Like Posting Tons of Random Art

  A/N: Some of these look far better in person, I'm sorry to say.








Friday, December 15, 2017

Random Words

A "person who makes art" is a job description.
An "artist" is someone with an unnatural, dangerous compulsion to create.

My, I'm as quotable as Wilde.

Sunday, December 10, 2017

Humor: On the Role of Women in this "Enlightened" Age

Over the past few months, certain crimes of various powerful men have been brought to light. 
The once-ignored casting couch culture has been revealed - bared, revoltingly, like the rude bits of a sexual harasser. 
No longer can we deny the unpleasantries committed constantly in this culture of ours. 
It’s a societal sickness in desperate need of a cure.
Being the thoughtful old thing I am, I’ve come up with fantastic solution. 
Rather than force all the ‘bad’ men to behave with decency, we should remove the women from the situation. 
We girls will return to our traditional workplace - the home. 
There we won’t be surrounded by as many potential rapists. Fewer people would have power over us, too. 
Someone can’t threaten to fire you if you don’t have a job to be fired from. We’d be free. Well, free-er.
Anyway, we’re far better at being housewives than businesspeople. 
There are some things most men have no understanding of. Have you ever tried explaining how to fix a button? 
Or, worse, which shirts can’t be put in a washing machine? 
Don’t even get me started on their inability to keep track of the children.
 Their funny little brains don’t seem to understand such crucial things. They’re stupid, in a way. 
It’s our duty to complete all of those little tasks that keep civilization from collapsing.
Why waste time trying to make it in a man’s world when you’re needed elsewhere?