"i'm a lady" - santogold

Brad and i were having a dysfunctional sweat lodge. we had locked ourselves into the bathroom sans cellphones, booze, coke or that clutch of opium i had that never seemed to dissipate no matter how hard i tried to comsume it all. magical really, but i'm not here to present that phenomenon. no, tonight brad and i were locked int the bathroom only with joints. all natural paper. shit, the glue was probably made from sort of monkey spunk that was all organic.
admittedly, we had been... doing it up. often. as in too often. the boy couldn't even blame me any more. he was the one who seemed to come home more with the drugs. i acted stuck up and did them all before i came home to make it seem like i wasn't the dealer anymore.
we had been been well behaved otherwise. Brad was too fragile to poke into a fight. the publisher had told him to take a fucking jump off a cliff with his new book. like, 'give me my advance money back, bitch' kind of pissed. it was a seeming mystery since he had previously been a solid meal ticket with well-received books under his belt. i even did a little recon with my connections around town. word on the street was Brad concocted a steaming pile of shit and no one would back it.
had i read it? well, i told Brad i had. i read about every 15th page or so and made mental notes of descriptions to bring up in conversation about the novel. i actually like how he writes, so it's nothing to do with taste. they're hard hitting descriptions that bring the story to life. people like that shit... but i didn't have time to read 300 pages of his latest opus. i'd like to chalk it up to pure laziness, but no, i have to fess up to you and confirm that i was overwhelmingly jealous. i have a million stories in me but i can't get them out. ever. let alone select the appropriate verb tense. ever! so that issue did halt me from actually getting into his newest book. i'd make it about 3 paragraphs and then stare off into space pouting that *i* should be making this shit. i should be writing shit down. but therein lies the problem: i couldn't be bothered to try.
my madness aside, the 6 months that brad had been living with me were action packed. and i did love the kid to bits. but drugging and drinking and partying were catching up to him. my Australian Paw-Paw ointment was all but gone last time i checked from him skimming it around his hungover eyes. normally i would have a massive faggot attack over it because it was my fix-all for piles and singed assholes. what? it's true.
looking into the red tub i sighed. too much.
brad had been trapped in the apartment for close to 2 weeks with overwhelming agoraphobia. i had tried dragging him out the door on the weekend and his terrified screams were enough to drop him before we even made it to the door. he did nothing but sit out on the patio floor chain smoking or lie in his twinky nest on his bed swaddled in blankets. we've all been there. i can't point fingers. i spent the better part of 5 months of my life like that. a couple weeks won't kill him. the lure of getting more coffee since i refused to buy more beans [plan a] or me setting up some blind date requiring him to leave the building would get him out.
i wandered out with the empty tub and found his bedroom door open. he was burning coffee scented incense. my incense. jesus, man...
"kid, staff meeting. bathroom. now."
"no|!"
i was on a bit of a short fuse... i dashed into his room and grabbed his ankle to pull him out. hey presto! he had underwear on! better than the last time i tried this. that was embarrassing. well... for him.
"let's go, blondie. we're having a talk."
he moaned yet let me drag him by the ankles. i hauled his legs up and leaned him against the wall. he had to finangle to get comfortable again and actually sounded like he was crying and swearing.
"staff meeting. all present and accounted for. jesus kid, what's the deal?"
"my fucking BOOK! my fucking book.... months. this was it. this was the story i had in me... get it out... on my fucking mind." thud. his head bopped onto the floor. there was little to no memory of the last time that we had cleaned the floor. i'm very sure i mopped it after i barfed last month. yeah. yeah he's fine.
"kid, i know this is fucked up. you have the story, it's done. you can't change that the publisher has a dick up his ass about it. do what your agent said. you shelve the book and start another."
"i'm not a fucking wind up toy!!"
"sure you are. get some other drafts off your hard drive. offer them up to the publisher, see if you can get a delay on this whole business. show that you'll flesh something else out. something, you know, different"
"I can't. i can't write anything else."
"which leads me to agenda item number 2: our current stasis of partying. all the time. non stop. to the break of dawn. we keep that party goin' on...."
"I GET IT."
"get it? good! guess you want me to cancel that order for an 8 ball?"
"no! we're going out for a birthday party tomorrow... and... ugh. ok. ok point taken. and received. and acknowledged. i just... needed to go a little crazy."
"oh for sure. i get it. i really do. but i booked us in to see a therapist this monday."
"wait... us?"
"I told my friend we're a couple and we're getting a great rate. i figure we can get both our shit on the table and dealt with AND it's only half the cost!"
"you're serious?"
"No. dick. i'm not, but we're detoxing. effective today."
"i see weed doesn't count."
"you know, man.... you just can be a little pill sometimes, huh?"
"sensitive. fine. let's have this joint and discuss further."
"no further discussion. i'm lighting this and we're not drinking, coking, tripping or eating anything unhealthy for 2 weeks. i have some ativan for you to take, we order in a few loads of groceries and just get our shit on straight, ok?"
"you've done this before?"
"piece of cake. plus i have this little friend who'll bring us over shit to make smoothies."
"how lovely.... please just light that and let's get this thing going. i need a change of scenery."