I wasn't scared. A little high, a little horny, but in no way scared to be white-boxed up.
I thought I would spend some time masturbating tonight, after my friends and the press left. I remember the National Gallery in Pest a few years back when I was so hard from all the hot fuckin' dudes in all the paintings that I rubbed one out in the bathroom before I left, but the art tonight night didn't really do it for me.
I'm wondering if the ladies from the Triangle Shirtwaist Factory would be taking a stroll through Soho tonight, gallery hopping and assessing the forgetful non-monumental neighborhood where their ghosts might roam. I think they aren't. I imagine they are shopping at Prada down the street, appalled by contemporary tailoring for sickly/waify women and frowning at the singed ensembles that they'll wear for eternity. And if they do see the art, they're noting that everything seems dead on the walls, confined and only to be seen by:
1) ghosts and
2) patrons of the not-for-profit art obligatory guilt circuit. (more ghosts)
Somehow it's easier to participate in others' art these days than to make my own. I'm a huge fan of collectives (thusly? As a result?).
So I thought I'd just polish off a bottle or two of the gallery's champagne (which I did) and jack one before I went to bed (which I can't promise). What I am thinking about a LOT is what I should do with my time in solitary. I fully expected to relish in my solitude. I was certain that I'd conjure some brilliant creative gimmick, the key to my millions. But before I even got to that I've already decided:
1. how I would spend it.
a. Pay off my bills
b. Purchase some real estate
c. Invest
d. Gift a considerable amount to friends and family
e. Relax for a few years
f. Overdose on something awesome that made me want to be really funny and charming and have lots of sex resulting in monumental (ambiguous) cultural monumentality. Somehow. Inevitably, and instantly.
g. Deciding what hall in what important and institution would be named after me as a martyr to nothing in particular, but it would be cool and important. Totally ubiquitous.
2. what single image (spec b&w grainy photograph) of me would best represent this improbable fantasy for all time, forever!…
a. in newspapers, magazines, books, blogs, zines, etc
b. me fucked up, on the floor, on a pile of money? No, been done. Dogpiled by hot boys? Good enough for me.
…upon the news of my death, and would be employed as the iconic image for countless overly-funded indie feature underground films about my life as a [cue insurmountable circumstantial description] who blah blah blah.
3. what I could write in my journal this very night to act as the quizzical text to verse all the bullshit mythology surrounding my legacy from said sad biography that would not be discovered until a calculated number of decades had passed since my untimely death and the exhaustion of the initial hype and rolled-out residual interest, and exactly how many decades that should be.
4. if I was happy having nicknamed my dick "teddy."
5. what collateral works I had in place to substantially, yet effortfully arguably, and in full-on bullshit fashion, support the story to perpetuate it.
…yawn. By this time I'm too tired to entertain any of these ideas, or just too fucking lazy. So I think of my boy, touch myself for a bit. I've got a semi going, but I know if I hold off, it'll be better tomorrow when I see him (dos day splooge!), because I know I'm not impaling myself on this shitty art,or suffocating myself with bubble wrap, so I ain't goin' tonight, and I still haven't come up with that golden idea.
Think. THINK, you fuckER!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
