kagablog

Thinking about moving out of the total rat pig shithole that i call home was wonderful; a new set of oppurtunites, no more people collecting my tampons, but Jesus Christ I never knew it would be so fucking hard… Take for example that we were to be out by the first of December because, as I have previously stated many times in other such columns, our very grey and very male and very white (think Mr. Burns-ish but excuse me to hell for using a Simpson’s reference. I just can’t think of a better comparison. I promise, I’ll never do it again.) landlord stupidly bought a building on the crack hub of Chicago; Rockwell and North, where even my much older and very cracked out half brother announced loudly at a family get together after I told him the intersection by which I lived “That’s where Zee (his friend) gets all his rocks!”… and my brother had not been out of Northern Wisconsin once in his entire life, but he was familiar with one intersection in the Big City. Mine. And he was right. The landlord could not have picked a worse place to start gentrifying…Rockwell and North… big mistake.
He let us “artsy WHITE college students” move in, after kicking out the gay black man upstairs, who I guess turned out to be too black and not gay enough. However, he soon learned that we were a bunch of junkies who also worked for the needle exchange so our whiteness faded ever so fast and our once beautiful apartment soon turned into a crack den where the toilet did not flush and you couldnt walk two feet without something sticking into your toe…A giant pincushion if you will, except the pins are syringes and they stick out instead of in. I wonder myself how many times I have been accidentally stuck. When I was on the needle myself I think I was perhaps cleaner than I am now, off the needle and sucking the methadone tit, due to accidental needle sticks. I still refuse to get an hiv test because i do not want to know the results. meanwhile my vagina stands as a weapon, infecting each unknowing stranger that I bring home from Nick’s Bar with my horrible affliction. I do use protection, or try to, but you never know who is a flea bitten aids bag and who is not.
That aside, in the meantime two years pass by and the landlord decides that the gunshots are not going to stop and the crack baggies are not going to go away and the city is not going to fill in the potholes, or even reinstall the streetlight that has been knocked down and lays hazardously on our corner. A thirty
day notice is what he gives us. What could go wrong in those thirty days? What did go wrong in
those thirty days? How many upright citizens would stand there, their mouths gaping wide open, witnessing my life spiral downward further and further until I swear it cannot get
any worse, and then I find my roommate’s “secret stash” of my used
bloody tampons, and i find myself spending hours and hours straining my arm trying to clean the blood off of the walls so that we are not sued by our very white and very eager to sue landlord. i did what he asked.
Three days before we
move away my roommate almost gets his eye removed by a neighborhood manaic
and I am forced to miss something important that might earn me some kind of money for the not-so-simple future because they will not let me leave at the hospital. While I am there, every doctor and nurse that enters the curtained room looks first at me as if I am the patient. There is a man next to me with his eye hanging out of his head, and I am mistaken for the one who needs help. Maybe these trained professionals are not so mistaken. I would have long since
checked myself into a mental hospital or some such place with all of this chaos going on if I had the luxurious privilidge of having insurance.
Upon driving my one-eyed roommate back to the house after the doctors decided he’d have to get
skin grafted from his ass to his face, I find my other roommate (the tampon thief) outside with a destroyed car; the fifth one he’s destroyed in two months. He claims he drove it into a pile of dirt, but the wrecked car with streaks of dark green paint from a Ford Escort down the street tells a different story. I listen to the police and him go back and forth and finally, the police decide to put him in handcuffs and take him away. I wished so hard they’d take him to a mental hospital. I was so scared of him I had to lie and say I was living with a hispanic girl, not my former roommates, because he threatened to kill himself on several occasions if I ever left that
house.
I wanted to leave a million different times, but his threats made it somewhat impossible. i wanted to say fuck off, but how could I to someone who’s entire room is a shrine devoted to me. Photos of me adorned his walls, as well as things i had made for him…paitings. They were the only
things on his walls except drug induced messages written in blood that made no sense. I got news that he was also using our needle exchange equiptment to drain his own blood. Needless to say, that disturbed me a whole bunch. I really don’t
think that there are many more things that can shock me. Then I found out on not one, but two different occasions that he was collecting my used menstural blood! The
worst thing about this abhorrible behaviour was that i had to act like this was absolutely normal behaviour
in fear of him going crazy on me. “Oh you’re collecting napkins containing the bloody scrapings of my fallopian tubes, yes dear that would make a lovely art
project! Just throw a couple of popsicle sticks in and you could make a whole tampon-ranch type thing!”
So it was over, and i am on to bigger and
better things. I even buy myself a brand new very white apple computer for the life makeover and then the bomb drops…again. My job lays me off. The job that has supported my need for 18 hours of sleep a day and daily doses of benzodiazapenes as well as Church’s Chicken lays me off. Now what the fuck do i
do?!
What every drug addled retard who does not want to deal with life at all would do; I get on a heavy duty antidepressant that makes me sleep all the time. That is my solution for a bit, then it gets too boring. What is a girl to do??? Especially a delicate princess like me. No home. No job. At
least i get sex but that is a whole different can of worms that i will not open at this point. Lovely is the new year, but i am very scared. Visions of tampons dancing in my head….