I’m exhausted. EXHAUSTED! I can’t deal with all of these people. Every time I go down to New York to make the rounds and visit my publisher, I feel like a part of my soul is scarred beyond repair from everything I have to deal with. These people don’t like you, they just want something from you; then there’re the people that need someone to talk to but don’t know how to listen; then there’re all the journalists and artists that are so wired on Adderall they can’t finish a thought and talk like goldfish.
And honestly, goldfish get a bad rap for supposedly having very short memories and limited mental capabilities, but in my experience this isn’t true. They’re very wise and cunning creatures. I once saw a goldfish selling caftans and bootleg DVD’s on the street in Manhattan trick Bennington into buying a “Balenciaga Beanie Baby.” I never told Bennington that he got ripped off, not that he would know or care, because he was roaming the city on my dime. This is back when I still had all of the initial advance for my book Always a Stone and I felt cocky, going to Au Bon Pain instead of Subway, paying for cabs instead of jumping on top of one and hoping for the best.
I don’t care if they have good intentions or they mean well or they really truly do care about me. It doesn’t show! I’m constantly persecuted by everyone around me, especially my supposed friends. I don’t like being talked at. This finch named Robert approached me on 5th Ave. yesterday, and of course whenever someone in Manhattan approaches you, you spur claw them and do your best to blind them so they can’t see your motives or path.
But he was smaller than me and I wasn’t coordinated enough to try my sideswipe. Turns out we know each other, from when I don’t now, but this fucking finch was gabbing my ear off for a solid 10 minutes as I waited for a cab during the shift change. He kept talking about getting out of the country and joining FEMA, about how they have the best summer camps and swimming pools and “alternative nourishment options.” I bet he lives in Silicon Valley with all of those other sexless freaks on LSD.
I pushed him into a crowd of people as I jumped into a cab and impulsively decided to leave early and go to JFK to fly home. I called my publisher, and she was confused, maybe upset even, but I told her if she ever wanted more material from me I had to leave. I can’t be around people for too long because they’re like vampires and they suck you dry. Anyone with any kind of energy in this world is destroyed every day by reptilian shape-shifting bloodsucking vampires. I got absolutely no work done yesterday and I just got home and am too exhausted to even watch a movie, let alone read a book. This is the best I can do at the moment.
Sorry if I sound exasperated, BUT I AM! How does anyone live like that? I need near complete isolation to even think straight. Maybe I’ll just Skype in from now on. I don’t need to grift and gab anymore; they know my work. And I’ll never miss those subway grates on the sidewalks in Manhattan. I almost broke a claw yesterday. Maybe next time I’ll fall down a manhole. At least that would offer some good material. Now I’m just spent.
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