me and november 21
each new day is full of bullshit mental challenges and bullshit fake smiles and i am just so fucking tired of it.
i imagine myself to end up in a hotel room with the walls covered in newspaper articles about heroic pets and with grocery advertisements pasted over the windows so that every day that the sun tries to shine in i can remember than ramen noodles are so cheap and salty and fucking wrong for the soul but so good and i would eat them bowl after bowl in my hotel prison with the air conditioning at an icy 38 degrees and i could cuddle up beneath the blankets and flip channels and hide from the roaches and wonder if the curtain rod in the shower would be strong enough to support me if i decided to hang myself.
i would have a desk. a real shitty one with all the initials carved into it from the people who had stayed in the room before me including the hookers and crackheads and business men with expensive porn habits and garbage bags full of kleenex and adderall crushed up and trapped in the ridges of this wooden piece of shit that is still more sturdy and beautiful than anything ikea could pull from it’s ass.
i could create my own signs to hang on the door in place of the ‘do not disturb.’ i could totally do that, and who cares if they don’t understand that a chinese take-out menu means ‘please fuck off until later,’ while a pizza menu means ‘i am choking on my own stank. please clean this room quickly.’
i wouldn’t have to make any excuses or explain anything to anyone. i could write all day if i wanted–in my underwear with a cigarette hanging from each corner of my mouth and q-tips covered in kool-aid shoved into each nostril. maybe i would write a play. or songs. i could buy a keyboard, but that would just be too cliche.
as if the rest of the fantasy isn’t?
i should pick a new place. somewhere lonely because it is so loud in my head. somewhere where i could write everyone a nice long letter and tell them how much i love them and whatever i decide to do, it’s probably for the best.
alltheavenueslookugly 
I like the hotel fantasy … I share it (although, for me, it’s a motel) … That it is a cliche means that it’s in the cultural subconscious, collective unconscious, no? An archetype–the beast in his lair, sequestering himself from the rest of the world, validating his own beastiness … or the hero’s journey through hell? It’s all 2 parts bullshit, 1 part essential truth, like most things. Incidentally, do you know how much semen can be found on the average hotel/motel TV remote?
I imagine it is way more than I would ever believe. 🙂