I have spent so many sundry sunny holidays in the dirty dark rooms of strangers, missing holiday calls from my mother, my boyfriend, my boss. This holiday I decided to try to get clean.This Labor Day weekend I spent the entire three day holiday quite fittingly, in labor.
Not birthing so much as re-birthing.
I renewed a relationship to my self by painting my apartment.
Well, I actually haven't gotten to the painting part, since unbeknownst to me until my friend Deb (who graciously visited me from L.A. to help me move out of my business since the lease is up) informed me that before you paint, you have to wash the walls, and prime them.
Now, Deb left on Tuesday, and since then, I have been priming and priming, getting ready for the painting.
I realized the extent of my malady of addictive behaviors when I removed the smoke detector.
Wow!
These walls really were once white!
Prior to unscrewing the detector fitting, I had thought that
eleven years ago, the apartment I had moved into had been freshly painted with a color like tobacco or putty.Well, when I say I'm smokin', I am not just referring to me being hot in bed.
These walls hold the truth of that I have smoked in bed for hours, cell phone in one hand, cigarette in the other, searching the voices on the chat line for the someone or someone's who sound good to me in the moment, and most of the time they all turn out to be just like me, lonely, and letting lonely be clouded with horny, and letting horny lead to doing dirty things.
But I am getting clean. I have been a mess for too long. The lack of clarity or cleanliness inside my self is embedded in the walls of where I live, and I can hope and pray that cleaning up my act in this apartment can resonate outwardly and inwardly. Patching these walls may be symbolic of patching up my life. All the cracks and crevices in this space which contains me can be lovingly sealed - like the emotional scars which can be healed.
I solemnly vow that the only cracks that will show in this apartment are when my crack is revealed when I'm crouched over the baseboard or the bathtub - the plumber's butt that shows itself when my sweats sidle down from the sweat on my sweet ass cheeks.
I managed to coerce some old trusted companions whom I had used (they actually like being used) many times before, and picked up a few new tricks at the hardware store who actually, instead of just smugly departing after me having my hands all over them for hours, fingering their nozzles, facilely making them shoot countless times, actually stayed with me.Here's a shot of them: see my fat friend at the bottom who despite being extraordinarily well-hung and possessing enormous sucking power, is exasperating to lug around, is very whiny, and bumps into everything.
And there's my oldest friend looking off in the distance past the twin towering IKEA, looking kind of blue.
And finally, there's the fucking hottie at the top. He's acting here like he could care less, staring off at the top of the stairs. I met him through the guy behind the counter at the hardware store across the street. Krud Kutter. I shot up all weekend with this fucker, and still can't stop.
Now he labels himself as non-toxic, but that makes me think of the bags of pretzels and twizzlers that label themselves as fat-free.
I played safe.
I slid my fingers up into latex,
feeling
part surgeon,part Subway sandwich maker,
and part.... well, part
one of the guys who plays a part in a certain genre of gay porn.
Krud Kutter didn't fucking care.As long as I kept squeezing,
he kept shooting.
For hours!
Now, sometimes things come into your life for a reason, and the timeliness of me meeting Krud Kutter at this junction in my existence is crucial for me to realize. I really need to cut the crud.
Stop smoking..... in my apartment.... Stop calling the chat line.... Stop thinking negatively. Stop being so lazy and putting remnants from take-out in my refrigerator rather than carrying them down the hall to the trash chute
Of course cutting crud is just the beginning. Once I started into this venture with Krud Kutter, despite our shooting up together, he really got me clean.
But then I met someone in Janovic Plaza who I can't really say we had a three-way with, but I went back and forth between the two:
Fresh Start.
The name of Benjamin Moore's All-Purpose Primer
