Let me tell you something I learned last year in the middle of Bushwick; ecstasy doesn't do shit. It felt real good for about 30 minutes until it wore off. By minute 31, it was reminiscent of the last hours of what was my personal 9/11; the two tabs of acid mixed with champagne, ketamine and blow that dropped my cognitive functions to an all-time low on New Year's Eve.
Sure, you had a good 30 of hehe haha hoho. Eventually, it would lead to dryness of the brain that felt like 1940s diagnosis "hysteria" where they prescribe you a vibrator. It felt just like acid did in hour 8.
I retold the acid story on Sunday taking the L train, when asked if I'd ever had a bad trip. In my mind, the experience seemed fine until I said it out loud. It was like when I was SA'd and the university counsellor looked at me and said "Yeah girl, that's bad." Maybe not verbatim, but that was the energy that exuded off her pity-induced frown. Too much? Reread it but as if it were a little funny.
One, it didn't feel like we were in NYC. Maybe Toronto was similar to NYC, the sounds were relatively similar, they were both expensive, and the people that filled both cities would never pick up the pace. Mind you, I walk like an agro version of the Road Runner double fisting a coffee and a smoke. So maybe the problem was me. Two, that feeling didn't matter, because by 10 p.m. I had a mic singing What You Waiting For? swinging back soju water that was mostly soju. I could've been back in Mumbai, it didn't matter, I was happy.
Our first night felt like an outdated film that would come out in 10-plus years. "333, lucky number," the coat check guy told me. By the elevators, a duo stood in all-black suits and British-looking faces.
The Dare spawns conversing about the club's allure. Soon, in the elevator, a woman would drunkenly ask us what our pronouns were and point at us one by one, "Faggot! Faggot! Faggot! And...faggot!"
Perhaps, I was a faggot that night. Perhaps, I've always been...a faggot. When I pissed, and the sounds of birds played in the bathroom, I should've reflected more on this. Or maybe on the rooftop when we all piled on the couch and passed the vile. Maybe, instead, the faggots are the friends we made along the way.
When I get a therapist, I'll dissect this.
I found myself back on Myrtle Ave, looking at the Market Hotel window I saw a year ago from the subway stop. "Hey, I'm on the other side!"
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One thing about NYC is that chopped cheese on a roll is going to form into a rock that you're going to have to pass like a kidney stone. God may have given us free will, but I truly think it should've limited chopped cheese intake per God's creation. The "Trump low prices, Kamala high prices" sign didn't help digest it any better.
We arrived two days after the election and everything seemed the same except the signs and one uncomfortable interaction M had with a gas station clerk. "Be careful," he said with a smirk.
Right now, you have a defunct businessman preaching to the working class about their rights, rights which he doesn't care about very much. On his side is the human flesh embodiment of a Funko Pop using a Nuerolink that seems to be sponsored by Howard Stern.
Right-wing men have a consistent way of intertwining homoeroticism into their lives There is something so homoerotic about their provocations. I say this seriously. Their extensive hate and detailed anti-gayness make you wonder about their personal feelings of shame leaking into policy making. There's also something so humourous about the young mostly white, contrarians of NYC falling into the alt-right. I mean sure, this isn't new, but I'm looking at it from the perspective of the election. The "free thinkers", is that correct?
Magdelene Taylor's GQ piece on the Sovereign House election party was sort of necessary. Either the writer didn't want or delve deep enough to portray their absurdity, or there was nothing of interest to capture.
It's possibly a combination and holds importance for how uninteresting these people are. Deeply, something I've said repeatedly, I believe the worst thing you can be in life is boring. The MAGA young elitist New York yuppies, ordering martinis and vodka sodas on Canal St., wearing red translucent tights or an ill-fitted next iteration of Indie revival that screams polyester, is just that.
B stands for bird (derogatory). O is Ozempic, energetically. R is redacted, and rapist. I is IJBOL. N is nincompoop but spelt with "cum". G is Rohypnol.
Someone will write about it on Spite.
Taylor captures this blandness and boredom, swinging White Claws and having this blind support beyond the reason of niche clout. Random Twitter white girl wearing a MAGA hat for jokes. It doesn't make you envious of their community, it just makes pity the fool. They've all become miniature iDubbbz on their own edge lord crusade, confusing Trump for a Hegel-type or some provocateur investing in the far-right American Dream.
It's all a meme that got taken too seriously, like being the Devil's advocate became a lot more fun. You're still a sheep to a cause. BAAAH BAAAH BAAH BAAAH BAAAH BAAH BAAAH BAAAH BAAH BAAAH BAAAH BAAH BAAAH BAAAH BAAH BAAAH BAAAH BAAH BAAAH BAAAH BAAH BAAAH BAAAH BAAH BAAAH BAAAH BAAH BAAAH BAAAH BAAH BAAAH BAAAH BAAH BAAAH BAAAH BAAH BAAAH BAAAH BAAH BAAAH BAAAH BAAH BAAAH BAAAH BAAH BAAAH BAAAH BAAH BAAAH BAAAH BAAH BAAAH BAAAH BAAH.
Honey, become an anarchist or Leninist, start doxxing your landlords or start selling tested drugs at your club like that venue in Vancouver, that seems a lot more "edgy" than being a voter of the Conservative party as a personality trait...or even the Dems.
It seems too lazy if you ask me. Drink ether or, explore each other's bodies, do something...
The question is, what now? You've sorta got what you want, but where do you go from here? What do you become when you're the majority once again? Are you not the avant-gard? The counter-culture to the "woke epidemic"? Is it time to move to Ojai?
Anyways, Cladestino was mid as fuck.
It was about 1 a.m., G had filled us with drinks at Rash and Lucky 19 bar was playing Brazilian Funk. By 3 a.m., T and I were getting yelled at by S to chug a bottle of molly water at Basement. Our jaws were swinging and our cheeks were cut within an hour or less. I felt like I was being stalked by gay David Lynch. I don't know why, it was just a feeling. I remember my body swinging, and then seeing J swinging in T's arms.
Collectively, the jaws were swinging. My head was thrown in a tumble dry, in a sexy tumble dry.
Whoever was DJing in the house room, I fucking hated that shit. Poped an Ibiza catheter up my ass.
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My right nostril aches at the touch. Any touch, a slight, a rub, a pick anything, it hurts. J was huddled in the larger bathroom with 5 of us crammed in, watching her cut a few lines. "You don't do this in Canada? You just snort the crystals?" she said something along the lines of that. We do. Well, we don't crush it into a fine powder like she did. It's always sneezing pixie dust.
We were always in a bathroom. At Jade, we were standing five of us, once again. "Hey! What's going on in there!" S said. "Kick the door open we're stuck," we'd yell. "You're doing what?" he replied.
"KICK THE DOOR OPEN."
I remember saying bye to G thinking I'd see her the next day, but I didn't. When we said bye to J on Sunday night, watching her walk up to the subway by the Popeyes, Checkers and Dunkin intersection. It really felt like it was over. I felt nostalgic every time I spent time with them like I was missing the moment I was currently in. It felt like it was already over. They made our trip what it was.
The idea of coming back home felt so painful. We were in a bubble and we didn't know anyone, and the people we did were dancing with us around the city. My biggest concern was that I was talking about dancing more than doing it at one point.
"I am going to Basement, I will be at Basement, just let me dance at Rash and don't ask me again to go to Basement," I remember saying.
I stood outside that venue on Saturday, well now Sunday, and started to slowly cry. The closer we got the louder the techno blared and the more I feared my ultimate destination. Circuit gay bonanza. "I'm going to cry I can't do this," I told S and S.
"It's okay, you can just cry inside!" S said to me.
I couldn't do it again, I couldn't do 5'4 to 5'9 sweaty circuit gays shirtless with baseball caps. I swear I'm not homophobic but it felt like I was. "There's only so many shirtless gays in leather harnesses I can see in one trip," I remember saying on Sunday night somewhere in the East Village.
For the first time during this trip, well we'd only been in NYC for four days, I was asked what I thought about the city. "I hate it," I replied. But by the time I'd left the bar, finished dinner, left J at the subway and made it home, I found myself crying in bed.
Okay, see, when I was really little and we'd visit Canada I'd bawl my eyes out the night before. I'd cry and cry, sob into my pillow and try my hardest not to let my parents notice. Even if they did, which I'm sure they did, I'd hide under the blanket and pretend like I was asleep. Eventually, the crying would put me to sleep.
I forgot about that for a while, until July last year in NYC. Sitting in Bushwick, watching The Summer I Turned Pretty with S, I started bawling. "I think you need to sleep," said S. That was true, I'd slept approximately 7 hours within three days and a bottomless brunch coke bag destroyed my soul. Regardless of all that, it was the same feeling. I was crying because I didn't want to leave.
Here we were again, I was crying again and it wouldn't stop. I lied, I didn't want to leave, but I just thought I didn't want to go home and pretend I had infinite money and just dance every day in our little bubble.
I miss the Elsewhere cat the most I fear.
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