I'm a shit person, I know. I feel like PJ is singing about me. Cunt. It's okay.
And then there's that You Said Something song that Whit always played during our month-long monogamous experiment in Brooklyn before he went on tour in Brazil and I went crazy and quit my job and ended up sharing a needle with this guy named Piss who had Hepatitis C in a laundromat bathroom in Bed-Stuy. I'm surprised I didn't catch it. My arm did swell up with these weird patchy spots, but I felt great. That was actually a really fun night.
Oh wait, actually that was after Whit came back from Brazil. I flew down to Louisville to play a house show with him, but I got really stoned and was too nervous to do it. I took a nap, and when I woke up he was playing with one of his other lovers (he's polyamorous). I got pissed off and ended up going next door and spending the next few days hooking up with his neighbor. I ran into him (the neighbor) again randomly at the Rainbow Gathering in South Dakota a few years later, but I was too fucking syphilitic and strung out on Adderall then to be sociable.
Anyway, I took a train back to NYC, I think, and went directly to the Metropolitan, telling myself that I was going to fuck the first guy who talked to me. It happened to be an HIV+ artist named David. He was pretty cool. He was on antiretrovirals or whatever, so his count was low enough that he was pretty much noncontagious. We did 2C-P and had amazing sex. Then he got into this weird artistic rage mode and threw paint all over a canvas on the floor. We ended up in the Lower East Side at like 2 in the morning in nothing but our boxers and covered in paint. I bought a bag of clementines (ha) and gave them to some tranny hookers on the corner. They were cleaning the subway station though, and I literally thought I was being gassed in a concentration camp. And when we got back home, we were cuddling in bed and his face started morphing into different beings including a demonic elf, and I spent the next hour crying in the shower. That was pretty intense.
I met Piss through David. Piss was this young and absolutely beautiful American Indian junkie with face tattoos. I spent a night with him and his girlfriend in a squat. I gave her my old ukulele and wrote a lyric from one of Amanda Palmer's songs on it. I wonder if she still has it. David's dog ended up eating my shoes, so I took his Converse. It was like the third pair of grey Converse I owned. I miss them.
It really sucks not being able to smoke in my room. I can't mention that enough.
Speaking of smoking, Whit did this art project thing on my bedroom wall with a bunch of found objects. It was supposed to represent who I am. Since I don't really have much stuff, it ended up being a bunch of empty cigarette boxes and cellophane connected by string. He also included his big hoop earring and a quarter with a hole in it. I miss him. I haven't talked to him years. I was hoping I'd run into him the last time I was in Chicago, but I didn't.
Anyway, I could go on and on and on about this subject, but I don't feel like it right now. I actually made a shittie improv song about some of it once: https://soundcloud.com/ben-pettis/improv-for-whit
I tried to write an autobiographical song earlier, but I hate everything I do now. Here's the first couple verses:
i'm just a quiet little boy
who doesn't like to play with toys
i much prefer the company
of encyclopedias and trees
sometimes mama dresses me
up like the girl i long to be
but if my daddy catches me
i don't know what he'd do to me
---
I'm going to try to sleep a few more hours. I got a nap in earlier, and Amy made some hamburger helper, which made me feel infinitely better. My doctor appointment is at 3:15. My mom wants to go with me, but I hope she doesn't tell my doctor that I took all my pills in the first two weeks, because if she doesn't give me anything, I don't know what I'm going to do. This time I'm definitely giving Amy the bottle so she can hide them from me and only give them to me when I need them.
This is probably a really stupid decision, but I think I'm going to make my blog public now and see what happens. Larkin said I should do it for art's sake, even though I don't really consider this art. I also think the feedback from strangers would be beneficial. I just hope too many people don't end up reading it. And I hope people don't get pissed off because I've written about them. I'm sorry, if so. You can sue me, but as my dad always says, "You can't squeeze blood out of a turnip."
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