I was in the third row of the scrumpiece. Third row from the bottom, five people in. There were a hundred and twenty of us (the guy from iHeartClothes.com was down for the count: gastroenteritis) in a 121-seat scrumpiece. Have you ever seen a scrumpiece? You can get them from Ikea but Fashion U. must have gotten it bespoke. It’s like a bookshelf for humans. They place it at the end of the runway. When you check into the press booth, they assign you your hole in the scrumpiece. You’re instructed to wear black cotton clothes. Once you’ve been to a few of these, you know the insider tricks, like to excise any itchy tags before you squeeze in. You get to the scrumpiece and wiggle your way into your spot (sometimes you need a ladder to get there). Then the assistants hand you your standard-issue camera (sometimes they need a ladder to get to you).

I heard they used to let photographers bring their own cameras but not anymore—they want all of the photographs of the student collections to look the same. No variation in megapixels, or in the capability of a zoom. And then you copy the files from the memory cards and take them back to the blogs where you work and you find they’re encrypted in a way that makes them impossible to Photoshop. Some magic in their technology. Fashion U. does not make themselves subject to sabotage of any kind.

So by the time the show started (exactly at 3:00pm EST), the scrumpiece was basically full. If  you were to look on from the front, the way the models do, you could see all of us, our heads almost poking out, bodies horizontal, cameras resting where our faces were. And that’s how all the pictures of the show look pretty much the same. They let the important people in the rows have little standard-issue pocket cameras for their own personal use. Security empties the pockets of the peanut gallery in the stadium seating.

The show started at 3:01pm EST, which should have been taken as a bad sign, but everyone was so jazzed on coffee and those little blue amphetamine pills you can get at gas stations that no one noticed (no one but me, anyway). You have to get jazzed, otherwise you’ll fall asleep. There are 180 collections, three minutes a pop, nine hours total, and if you fall asleep, you’re screwed. I’m allergic to amphetamines and I hate the taste of coffee, so.

The first fifty shows were the most normal. Twenty outfits apiece. Puppy-print stretch pants look like they’ll be in this season. One student did a print with Labradors and a different student did a print with Corgis. They’ll probably get in a fistfight at the afterparty. I snapped and snapped. Lizard suits, hoop skirts, silver bobsled uniforms. The models are all six feet tall and super thin and walk right down the center of the runway. Snap, snap.

Then around collection 80 or 90, things started to get weird, as they always do, and I felt my comrades in their little cubes get excited and start to wiggle around, trying to get the feeling back in their legs. I stayed still. If I stay still for the full nine hours, I go into this sweet state of hypnosis that I can’t get enough of.

A student sent his models out in brown lipstick and those silver bondage harnesses that were so popular back in 2014, only he told them to crawl on their hands and knees down the runway. The parade. Models wearing computers playing vintage porn, models wearing endangered species of tree branches, models wearing clear plastic thigh-high boots and capes with Sanskrit words painted in iridescent ink. But you could tell the audience was getting disappointed. There was no clear favorite, no one student that was going to propel themselves into notoriety and financing and big magazine spreads. Last year it was Frances Frances, who already has a brand worth 30 mil. These kids looked like they’d all get scooped up by the established brands and contracted for five years of indentured servitude. Sewing buttons on couture suits. I felt horrible for them (but I also felt great, because I was starting to float above my numbness in the scrumpiece).

Then there was a full minute of nothing. No models, no music. People started to whisper to each other. Finally, that incredible new Hokey Pokey dance remix started pumping through the speakers and this skinny bald girl in a pair of blue velvet overalls and nothing else came out to the middle of the runway. “I’m selling myself! Who wants to buy me?” she said, and twirled around a little. Her head was shiny and sort of pale blue. It was silent for 23 seconds, I counted. Her time was almost up when some guy in the peanut gallery came barrelling down past the security guards, waving his titanium credit card, sweating and looking so happy. Snap snap. And the designer in the blue velvet overalls was happy too. She squealed and jumped in his arms and they hightailed it out of there.

I floated over them. I touched her head and it felt like silk. I smelled his good intentions and her irrepressible joy at winning the game of life.

And then I was back in the scrumpiece. Earlobes tingling. I could hear whispers and mumbles, and then one loud person saying, “Someone sold themselves back in 2007. Hello? Does nobody remember this?” But nobody remembered this, I guess. They could probably only remember blue overalls and the semi-restricted breasts underneath them, a rich dude who bought an alien girl, who was probably taking her home and making her linguini, or making himself happy.

The rest of the show went on and I snapped snapped but everyone was distracted after that designer left. The show ended and we got out of our scrumpiece. I sat on the ground with an ice pack, gently rotating my ankles until I could get some feeling in my feet again. I overheard the photographer from Alamode.com talking with the ones from Time Out and Refinery29 and Chic and Runway. I guess they were so surprised by the girl who sold herself that they forgot to get pictures of it. They were all so fucked at their respective publications. Not me—I got the whole thing on film. I’m going to send it to my magazine and they’re going to put it on the cover with a headline that will make people want to buy the blue alien girl. Only they can’t buy her—like that’s ever made a difference before.

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Unreality House is on Tumblr, Twitter, and Facebook.

Photo by The President Wears Prada (Creative Commons)

When I think about those six months or so, there are certain things I remember and certain things I don’t. I remember, for example, the name of the cat everyone liked—Darby—but not the name of the other cat.

When there are two cats living in a house, the people living there usually like one of the cats a lot and the other much less.

* * *

I mostly remember the drugs. Painkillers stolen from Cory’s dad who was on hospice, dying of brain cancer. Weed from Jason, or Terry’s cousin’s friend in California—ounces weighed on digital scales, sacked and sold to kids on campus, smoked out of bongs, bowls, and blunts. Lean from doctors when our throats got sore, throwing up while driving past a cop car after drinking eight ounces in an hour. Adderall from that obese girl on campus, or my friends from back home who practically gave the stuff to me. Vyvanse from Sammy, whose doctor prescribed him 90 a month, or that kid in the dorms who sold beer to underage kids. Xanax from Tiffany, until she moved to China, or Blake who sold the yellow four milligram bars in bulk, shipped from India. LSD, staying up for three days straight and losing my shit until Kara showed up with some Klonopin, marching around campus at 4 AM thinking this is my town and I fucking own this campus, peeing my initials (JC) onto the side of a church.

I remember the junkies. The way their words seemed to slide from their slanted mouths, slimy and slurred or coughed up and short. The way their legs bounced anxiously as they waited—always waited—for Jason to come through with Opana or oxy or heroin or whatever they could find that day. The way their zombie-like eyes shone through eyelids like slits, pupils small as pins. The way they scratched their skin obsessively, like there was something underneath it.

The way I too eventually spoke from the side of my mouth, tapped my foot to that haunting, inaudible rhythm, hung pictures of past with the pins of my eyeballs, scratched unendingly at that incessant, incurable itch.

I remember sleeping on the couch, on the rare occasion that I slept, and the way I felt when people said “This is a sweet place, man” or “Oh, I thought you lived here.” I remember searching “effects of un-cleaned cat pee and feces” on Google, wondering if that was why I coughed so much, was so sick all the time.

I remember the first trip to the hospital, the second trip, and so on.

I remember listening to Gucci Mane, Three Six Mafia, and that band we liked to listen to while tripping—the one with the singer related to Sammy’s friend’s friend or whatever.

I remember the cops parking directly across the street from the apartment, pulling over every car that left the complex for “running the stop sign.”

I remember the tapestry in the living room. How someone looked it up online and said it stood “for home, love, and family.”

I remember how empty I became. How nothing meant anything and there were drugs to be done and there was money to be made. Thousands of dollars counted on the cigarette-burned carpet; guns next to the bed in the living room; friends disappearing, disappointed, gone.

* * *

Some things I can’t remember include the address of the apartment, what happened when, and everything I talked about doing but never did.

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Unreality House is on Tumblr, Twitter, and Facebook.

Photo by Daniel Borman (Creative Commons)

People.

The Main Character often wonders if it has lost any of its individuality throughout its life. It fears that it has picked up various persons’ idiosyncrasies and has lost its own in the process, becoming a patchwork of sort.

Hector Juan…that stupid fuck. The way his voice booms across halls because he is completely unaware of his own volume and he can’t hear to begin with because of his time spent in the army, the gunshots and grenades that went off next to his ear. He touched my penis, you know? Or, well, rather gently slapped it and claimed that, “they did that shit in the Army.” I accepted it and accept the absurdity of human behavior. When he speaks his sentences are concise but lead you to believe he was raised in the south side of Compton. He was not. He was from Palo Alto. He came up beside me one day at work and said, “When the rich wage war, the poor die.” I heard what he said, but I don’t think I was paying attention.  

He cut me and now he bleeds right through.

The Main Character takes a brief moment to look down at a cigarette package and questions how anyone could smoke, especially in 95-degree weather.  The wind blows gently and The Main Character drifts along with it in a parking lot and fragments of something that quite possibly could be nothing drift away as well.

The Main Character must return to its job (contractual obligation). It walks up to the entrance with the paranoia of objective judgment. This is typically the part where The Main Character keeps telling itself:

Projections. Probably even challenges. I wouldn’t even consider them tangible, to a certain extent.

The Main Character feels like it will be okay as long as this “amalgamated manifestation” will offer it support.

They crack a joke. They look at me, expecting a laugh or any response to let them know that I am aware of “humor.” They are easily amused. I am not. So I give them my reluctant laugh that sounds like this: haaaaaaaaaaaa *sucks in air* ssssssssssssssssss. This particular laugh is a strategic way of saying: Yes, I know, I will be your humanoid observer, but please understand that I am here for the experience, not so much your enjoyment. I endure earfuls of shit being shoved to my brain, but they will never realize that I control them remotely with the mute button. Thank you Lenny Carwell. Thank you for this laugh.

He cut me and now he bleeds right through.

The Main Character sometimes likes to get high or drunk or alter its perception anyway it can on irritable days. It likes colorful things. It likes the way a pill is shaped and comes in a variation of shapes and sizes and colors. Birthed from a clay vagina, like all people, The Main Character developed traits from connected pieces of fiction. Some are never true, but everyone is of course molded from a clay vagina, in and out of a House of Junkies, which always leaves broken promises.

Hi. I am an addict forever. I am walking up to this door. Inside this door is a family and a very unhappy life. But I keep coming back. I complain, jesus fuck I complain, but I will always choose this particular door over others. The door looks at me and says, “PASSWORD.” I smile a little and say, “What’s it matter? I will always choose to stay locked out from true happiness.”

The door opens.

She cut me and now she bleeds right through.

And from where is this most feared salutation coming from? Where does its brain revive itself? The Main Character is given an ample amount of opportunities to stop and perceive.  How would it make you feel if every “free” second you had was spent unknowingly supporting your own bad habits? Shitty. The Main Character goes home one day as according to its supposed everyday destiny and thinks of people. It wonders if people think of it. It wonders if it’s even possible for these people to think at all.

The Main Character strikes a flame and lights up a cigarette. It then realizes the purposes of its surroundings: the self-immolation of one’s ego, complete—and maybe satisfying—self-destruction.

They cut me and now they bleed right through.             

 

EPILOGUE

I was staring at the moon, avoiding eye contact with the display of inbred fascism that attempted to light up the sky with an array of colors. Instead the sky coughed and wheezed and silently screamed, begging the moon for help.

The ashes of bodies spread out over the horizon. It was a disease. It was a celebratory epidemic of mass hysteria and confusion, really.

The ashes embody me. They never miss.

Before the night was over I was covered in tongues, assholes, intestines, dried guts, horrible retorts, pleading nostalgia, and missed opportunities.

Someone had told me that every second is a choice, really. It’s all about the mindset you choose. This person would take what seemed to be a negative, and turn it onto a positive.

I guess I’m not too upset about it.

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Photo by Creativity103 (Creative Commons)

Waking up

feels like drowning

in the ocean.

 

Last night

I went to sleep

wearing yellow

arm floaties

and a really

cool-looking inflatable

duck

around my waist

and sure

I looked

really cute

and adorable

and shit

but it didn’t

end up

helping.

 

I still woke up

20,000 leagues

under the sea

giving fish

the finger

for being able

to breathe

underwater

and for just

floating there

and lookin’ at me

like the smug,

fishy

douches

that they are…

 

My whole life

has become

a search

on how to figure out

how to breathe

underwater.

 

Sometimes

you fall in love

and you fall

and you fall

and then

you hit the ground

but instead

of stopping

you just crash through

the ground

and you still

keep falling

and you’re all like,

“Well shit…

it looks like

I’m going to China,”

 

but then

you crash upwards

through the ground

in China

and you keep falling

upwards

until you’re in

outer space

drowning

in the stars

giving aliens

the finger

because they know how

to breathe

in the stars

and you don’t.

 

You don’t

and you never will

because you’re just

a drowning

10 year old boy

with very misleading

pubic hair.

 

I’m sorry

my very misleading

pubic hair

misled you.

 

It does that

sometimes.

 

But still…

 

Your heart

was supposed to

die

in my hands.

 

Your heart

was supposed to

die

in my hands

but not in

an evil doctor

kind of way

or anything.

 

In a romantic

kind

of way.

 

I was supposed to

comfort it

and keep it

safe

as it slowly

tapped out

of existence

the same way

I was supposed to

comfort it

and keep it safe

while it was

alive.

 

Then

I was even gonna

put some salt

on it

and microwave it

and eat it

and then sew

my asshole

and mouth shut

so no matter

what

it would never

leave me.

 

It kills me

that someone else

gets to

comfort your heart

as it slowly

taps out

of existence

and then gets to

put some salt

on it

and microwave it

and eat it

and then sew

his asshole

and mouth shut

so no matter

what

it never

leaves him.

 

If I ever

stop drowning

underwater

and in the stars

and in the mocking shadows

of lost love

I’m just gonna

punch holes

in walls

until I die

from it.

 

My epitaph

will read,

“Here lies Calvero.

 

He punched

a lot of holes

in a lot of walls

but that was

about it

really.

 

What a poor

bastard.

 

1985-2012”

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Photo by Amburn Everett (Creative Commons)

Horrible Bosses seems like a movie I would like to see

after being in the hospital for three days.

 

Today, one of my students kept staring at me.

Then, he finally said,

“It looks like Ms. Stricker got no sleep last night”.

I laughed and the kids all stared

and I could feel the bags under my eyes gaining puffiness.

I would allow around 8 ants to sleep there,

if they wanted.

It would make a really nice bed and I feel really bad for ants;

the way kids love destroying their homes

and killing their families.

Valiantly, the ants carry the dead and wounded away.

 

We all looked like sad squirrels at 2am.

Like the sad squirrels that older people look at

and say they need to get their act together.

And psychology squirrels look at them and say

“Interesting subject” or diagnose them with depression.

But we were depressed together,

which eased some of my anxiety.

And now, I am not really depressed,

but I always say that.

And now, I am no longer surrounded by my fellow sad squirrels

at 2am.

I am by myself checking my breast to see if the lump grew

and knowing I cannot see a doctor

because the doctors do not take white patients

and I have no car to drive away.

That is my new 2am.

 

“Ms. Stricker says when she lays down to sleep,

she hears our voices calling out ‘Ms. Stricker! Ms. Stricker!’”

The ants carry the wounded away.

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Photo by TERTPO (Creative Commons)