I joke about trash 'cause it takes class to be enlightened.
I always buy my medications/vitamins/general pharmaceutical needs at CVS.
However, I always purchase my condoms and lubricants at Walgreen’s because I don’t want a cashier to see me purchase wine, sleeping pills and Astroglide in the same transaction,
Fortunately, there’s always a Walgreen’s just across the street from a CVS so my neurosis hasn’t been all that inconvenient.
Elevators that are wide enough to accommodate a gurney scare me. Children’s hospitals scare me. Reviewing the last will and testaments of family members scares me. Imagining losing control over my body or mind scares me. Imagining having my Achilles’ tendon cut scares me. Turning left in intersections scares me. Heights scare me. Death by cold scares me. The near-impossible likelihood of this planet colliding with anything scares me. The idea of the Yellowstone caldera erupting and threatening life on this planet scares me. The lightless basement of the abandoned meatpacking plant scares me. The words on the walls “If I had a dime for every time my spine tingled” scare me.
Knowing that one day, there is a very likely chance that my grandmother could forget my name scares me. Knowing that I could follow in the same route scares me.
I’m willing to brave these fears. To not only stand my ground but to assert myself, to run without fear and restraint in the void, in the silent, black, gaping maw of an empty universe, empty of meaning and direction, chaotically tumbling on a haywire compass towards nothing…
It’s like being in that basement. Cold. Wet. Your very presence echoing on disintegrating concrete walls and pillars, under the weight of a butcher’s complex. If I had a dime.
I am able to take these fears… Because I live in this world, in this body, in this bright life… where the manager of Whataburger gives me free gravy for my fries.
Tonight, a friend invited me to a meet and greet of Miley Cyrus and Icona Pop after the concert tomorrow night. Given that I’m not going to the concert, I have no real desire to actually go to this after-party.
I could use this opportunity to go all out. Arrive on scene as a crazed Hannah Montana fan. Long blonde wig and tear-stained makeup. I’d pull a pistol out of my $14.99 Wal*mart Hannah Montana backpack and fire wildly towards Miley. Through the tears and sobs, I’d choke on the words "Where did you go wrong Miley?! Why did you leave us?! Why did you change?!"
Miley would have a martyr’s funeral. She would forever be misappropriated as a symbol of teenage rebellion and its subsequent suppression. T-shirts. A somber, funeral ode translation of "We Can’t Stop" would be played against a slideshow of her growth from Disney pop princess to renegade rampant harlot. Billy Ray would use this tragedy to further springboard his career in his desperate cry to maintain relevance.
The case study would be a long and intensive study into fan psychosis. They would study my actions, my speech patterns. They will visit my apartment which will seem like a perfect time capsule from the date that Hannah Montana was canceled on Disney. As if I blocked out any and all mainstream influence since 2011. They would discover a hidden room, filled to the brim with Miley paraphernalia. A shrine. They would discover that I would spend hours upon hours, listening to "The Climb" on repeat while whipping myself with the cord of my Hannah Montana hair-straightener. Chanting ritualistically "It’s the climb! It’s the climb! Miley Cyrus must die."
I would be imprisoned for life, easily. Imagine the scene from the end of Psycho, in which Norman Bates stares lifelessly into the camera. I would no longer be Cliff Johnson. Cliff Johnson is gone.
And she’s just being Miley.@7 months ago with 2 notes