So for Christmas I got an ipad2. I have to admit that when I opened it up, and stared down at its sleek white frame, I couldn't help but think, "oh shit, I'm going to sell this."
My fears are not without basis. Whenever the money's run out, I've resorted of course to selling my belongings to obtain money for drugs, or just drugs period. I've parted with three iPods over the last four 1/2 years, and once in the middle of a triazolam induced black out, I sold my MacBook for a fourty dollar bag of coke. The worst part about that deal, was that I ended up losing the coke after doing one shot.
I'll be the first to admit, that I am sort of a junky yuppie. I grew up in park slope, a nice neighboorhood in Brooklyn, the son of an artist and a photographer. I've been accustomed to fine coffee and baked goods all my life, amd even in my addiction, i loved to cook fancy stir frys and drink bustello coffe made in a french press. I would often pick up an orange cranberry scone on my way to the dope spot, and meet up with my dealer with an espresso in one hand, and however much money I had stolen that day in the other.
Yep, I'm a real asshole.
But on the other hand, I've always despised the neighboorhood I grew up in, for it's family safe, artist friendly environment. I hate saying this knowing that someone reading this has probably grown up in a shit hood, and wood give there left ball to live in a nice brownstone near prospect park, but I must speak the truth here. Though I am an artist and consider myself to be reasonably liberal, the fucking attitude of most of my neighbours is just pompous and insulting.
For instance, last night I went with my mother and father over to my aunts house for a family convention of sorts. They live in this real nice renovated studio apartment building, equipped with security codes and cameras to keep the delinquents out. Anyway, yesterday, after dinner, me and my dad go downstairs and smoke a cigarette. As we flick are butts, we then go back through the front door, following behind a middle age man wearing a scarf and spectacles, who if I'm to be honest, looked like a real bitch.
As we got through the first set of doors behind this strapping fellow, he turns to us, and asks if we live here. My father says "no, we're just visiting family up in 3D(the apartment number)" the middle age man immediately seemed to become concerned and suspicious. He hesitantly said, "well, you really should ring the doorbell in order to come inside." my dad then said, "no it's okay, e got the security code" and then plugged it in to let us through the next set of doors. The man became visibly upset, and brushed past us, scarf flailing behind him, and muttering, "you really ought to ring the buzzer!" I turned to my father and said, "God, what a fucking tool."
For some reason I couldn't let this little confrontation go. I didn't find the guy and get into an argument with him, but for the next half hour I fantasized about all the horrible things I wanted to do to him, to give him something to actually be scared about. I imagined finding his apartment, busting my way through the door, and knocking him in the stomach with an aluminum baseball bat. Then, I imagined it would be fun to duck tape him to a chair, and rummage through his apartment for money and drugs. Once I would finish stealing all his dilaudid and OxyContin (because you know, in my imagination, he would be on a ton of pain meds), I would rip the duck tape off his mouth and piss in his face. As I'd walk out the door I'd just snicker and say, "what a bitch."
Of course none of that would ever happen, as I have to much of a conscience to commit a heinous crime like the one I just described, but sometimes, it just feels good to entertain those dark, violent thoughts. Calling the guy an "asshole", would probably never happen, I'm just too much of a pacifist. Sometimes I think I may lack testosterone.
Anyway, on a final not for today, my street cred has just gone down the toilet. My mom scheduled me for a ten ocklock appointment at a hair salon this morning, and as I stood awkwardly outside what looked from the exterior to be a beauty salon, my heroin dealer walks by with one of his boys. He says to me, "Zach, what the hell are you doing out here." I just looked at him and said, "Havnt you heard Toni? I'm metrosexual now." He looked at me oddly and walked away
My fears are not without basis. Whenever the money's run out, I've resorted of course to selling my belongings to obtain money for drugs, or just drugs period. I've parted with three iPods over the last four 1/2 years, and once in the middle of a triazolam induced black out, I sold my MacBook for a fourty dollar bag of coke. The worst part about that deal, was that I ended up losing the coke after doing one shot.
I'll be the first to admit, that I am sort of a junky yuppie. I grew up in park slope, a nice neighboorhood in Brooklyn, the son of an artist and a photographer. I've been accustomed to fine coffee and baked goods all my life, amd even in my addiction, i loved to cook fancy stir frys and drink bustello coffe made in a french press. I would often pick up an orange cranberry scone on my way to the dope spot, and meet up with my dealer with an espresso in one hand, and however much money I had stolen that day in the other.
Yep, I'm a real asshole.
But on the other hand, I've always despised the neighboorhood I grew up in, for it's family safe, artist friendly environment. I hate saying this knowing that someone reading this has probably grown up in a shit hood, and wood give there left ball to live in a nice brownstone near prospect park, but I must speak the truth here. Though I am an artist and consider myself to be reasonably liberal, the fucking attitude of most of my neighbours is just pompous and insulting.
For instance, last night I went with my mother and father over to my aunts house for a family convention of sorts. They live in this real nice renovated studio apartment building, equipped with security codes and cameras to keep the delinquents out. Anyway, yesterday, after dinner, me and my dad go downstairs and smoke a cigarette. As we flick are butts, we then go back through the front door, following behind a middle age man wearing a scarf and spectacles, who if I'm to be honest, looked like a real bitch.
As we got through the first set of doors behind this strapping fellow, he turns to us, and asks if we live here. My father says "no, we're just visiting family up in 3D(the apartment number)" the middle age man immediately seemed to become concerned and suspicious. He hesitantly said, "well, you really should ring the doorbell in order to come inside." my dad then said, "no it's okay, e got the security code" and then plugged it in to let us through the next set of doors. The man became visibly upset, and brushed past us, scarf flailing behind him, and muttering, "you really ought to ring the buzzer!" I turned to my father and said, "God, what a fucking tool."
For some reason I couldn't let this little confrontation go. I didn't find the guy and get into an argument with him, but for the next half hour I fantasized about all the horrible things I wanted to do to him, to give him something to actually be scared about. I imagined finding his apartment, busting my way through the door, and knocking him in the stomach with an aluminum baseball bat. Then, I imagined it would be fun to duck tape him to a chair, and rummage through his apartment for money and drugs. Once I would finish stealing all his dilaudid and OxyContin (because you know, in my imagination, he would be on a ton of pain meds), I would rip the duck tape off his mouth and piss in his face. As I'd walk out the door I'd just snicker and say, "what a bitch."
Of course none of that would ever happen, as I have to much of a conscience to commit a heinous crime like the one I just described, but sometimes, it just feels good to entertain those dark, violent thoughts. Calling the guy an "asshole", would probably never happen, I'm just too much of a pacifist. Sometimes I think I may lack testosterone.
Anyway, on a final not for today, my street cred has just gone down the toilet. My mom scheduled me for a ten ocklock appointment at a hair salon this morning, and as I stood awkwardly outside what looked from the exterior to be a beauty salon, my heroin dealer walks by with one of his boys. He says to me, "Zach, what the hell are you doing out here." I just looked at him and said, "Havnt you heard Toni? I'm metrosexual now." He looked at me oddly and walked away
