Once again I cannot help but be incredibly full of myself. My drug use is the spawn of many things, but sometimes, like last night, it's the product of pure arrogance and evil. I know that I have not posted an entry in a while, and I apologize sincerely for the thousands of dedicated readers who look up to me for my insight and my overall, undying brilliance.
Like many great thinkers before myself, who once sat under a tree and by a stream, I too have reached at times, a point where I hallucinated like a mad mother-fucker after binging on intravenous cocaine. Did I see God? Did I see the lines by which our collective existence is connected? No, I saw the devil, and I kept on shooting.
Well, now that that's all cleared up, I'll give some insight into the life and degradation of Moderator Znegative, or rather, just last night will suffice enough to give you all a glimpse.
After relapsing in March last year, and thereafter fucking up my previous reputation at my school as a "good student", I managed to wiggle my way back into art school. It wasn't something I really wanted, but as I live at home with my family (a matriarch, I might add, with no bitterness or sarcasm intended-just fact), I was forced back through the SUNY doors, too look into the eyes of professors who once had to ask me to leave due to my inability to stay conscious during class. I'll tell you all now that I despise it. I'm an illustration major, a worthless fucking degree as far as I am concerned, just a way to kill time and burn money while I teach my few peers who actually want to better their artistic abilities, the 'science' of perspective and anatomy due to the ineptitude of our miserable teachers.* As for the rest of the pitiful hordes that makeup the illustration department.. Well, I can only feel sympathy for them, and anger towards the faculty, who in my opinion should be straight up with these kids and tell them now not to bother, because the idea that everyone can make a living as an artist is a dangerous misconception (though that's not to say only a select few should have the option to be creative, visually or not, but lets face it, even the best of us often end up with an addiction to heroin, a missing ear and a self-inflicted gunshot wound to the head.).
So anyway, that was just a little preface.
My first class yesterday started at 6:30 pm. I got their five minutes early, and rode the elevator up to the sixth floor with this plump buffoon who I have the misfortune of sharing three hours a week with. For some reason he asked me if my name was Donald, to which I replied no. We then exited, and I made sure to walk briskly ahead of him, otherwise a grueling conversation seemed inevitable. Once inside, our teacher asked us to come around the table at the front of the room where he showed us a book on the drawings of Seurat. Truthfully I'm not a huge fan of Seurat's painting's, but as a draftsman, he was nothing short of a master. His sense of composition and value was remarkable to say the least, and his drawings have a narrative quality much like Goya (one of my favorite's) which I really like as well. Eventually though, after a series of insanely naive questions, I began to lose interest. The fact that some of my classmates still didn't understand what 'value' was disgusted me, and so I pulled out my sketchbook and began to draw my teacher. It was an obnoxious move, and very arrogant. I love to draw, and that's probably an understatement, but I also love the attention I get at school for my artwork. It's not so much that I need to be validated so I can fit in and make friends, but instead a need to feel respected, because without my art, there isn't much to respect about me at all.
Well, the lecture soon ended and we were sent to our drawing boards as a nude model stood on a platform in the center of the room, illuminated primarily by a single light source (with some minor reflected fluorescent light which was cast from the back of the room). Our assignment was to do multiple study's of the figure without using line, only value. I like that kind of thing, and the fact that I'm color blind actually gives me an advantage when it comes to shading, as I'm not caught up in the brilliance and the beauty of the colors the majority of people can see. After 2 hours I became bored and restless though, and when our break was announced, I must admit I was elated. I ran down six flights of stairs and on to the street where I smoked a cigarette and walked around the block two times, texting my girlfriend who was expressing her craving for a bag of this fire heroin we've been getting. I texted back that I too would like a bag, or rather, that I would like a constant drip that unloaded two bundles over the course of a day into my blood stream-the perfect cure for heroin addiction. After a few exchanges, and some 'I love you'(s)', I ended the dialogue and headed back inside. I now felt an itch though, and I wanted to cop.
When I got back up to the sixth floor, I passed the plump dork I previously mentioned on my way back to class. In a nasally voice, he said "nice work man, everyone's really into your drawings!".
Then I passed my professor who was heading to the water fountain. This professor is quite a strange man, he has the face of G.G Allin, but he dresses like he went to a prep school. The man barely says a word, and rather than encouraging intelligent discourse, he seems often threatened by any comment that is even somewhat insightful. At the same time, he also seems to be disgusted by any question he deems moronic. I really think he's just the type of guy that wants stupid people to die, and smart people to shut the fuck up, so it was pretty uplifting when he patted my back as he passed me and said "kick ass drawings man, kick ass."
"wow", I thought, "what a nice guy".
As the class settled back to their seats, and the model took the stage again, we did two more drawings, a twenty minute pose, and a ten minute pose. I was growing sick of charcoal at this point, and was getting really lose. I still managed to knock out a pretty bad ass drawing though, and end the night on a good note. I left the school, smoking furiously, and hopped on the train back to Brooklyn.
When I was two blocks from my home, me and Lux (my female counterpart/lover/girlfriend) started texting again. She wanted dope and so did I. Oh fuck it all, we decided to cop. I went inside my house and grabbed two slices of pizza and then went upstairs to help her get ready. We left my house at around 10:15, and twenty minutes later we had four double-sealed bags of fire in my pocket and were back at the steps to the front of my house.
We raced upstairs and blocked off my door, and then pulled out two fresh rigs and some sterile water from the needle exchange, as well as cottons, and two spoons. I ripped open the plastic seal with my teeth, spitting it back on my floor, and poured the bags into the spoons. The count was good, the dope was white and powdery, a true rarity nowadays, when your average bag of smack is most likely not even dope at all. We drew up the shots, and I held the syringe up to the light, admiring the solution. I then stuck the beveled tip into the vein between my last two fingers (a resilient mother fucker, but let it be known, I now never use the same syringe more than once, and believe me, it's worth it. Easier to register, and wayy less damage.). I pulled back, though I could feel that I was in, and upon seeing the dark cloud of blood I shot that fucker in, and sat there, needle dangling out of my hand, as the dope hit my brain and I inhaled its fumes and experienced it's taste. I then sort of just laid there in a half-nod stupor, and wondered what the other students were doing at that time. Were they shooting dope too? I doubted it. Sure it's art school, but where I go, it's mostly comprised of dorks that think they'll make a living as an illustrator drawing anime. I thought about my teacher too, and wondered what he was doing. I imagined him sitting in his apartment, quietly sipping on tea and looking through a book on Otto Dix. In my fantasy I tried to scan the room, trying to find a bottle of pills, a rig, a crack pipe, but I couldn't place that there. "What kind of person am I?" I thought to myself.
*Just to clarify, I have had some inspiring classes, this remark was a generalization.
