I WISH MY FARTS WERE LOUDER [WEDNESDAY WHININGS WITH H2K]
“Oh good Wednesday”
“Good Wednesday to you, sir.”
I am not going to open these Whinings with an apology about last week because last week didn’t even happen. Yeah… Oct. 1st, not a thing. Hump day? More like bump day… because you were too busy snorting coke to realize that there were no Whinings. That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.
–I threw up in a gas station in Salt Lake City. It was the elevation—the elevation and the good vibes.
Sometimes I don’t need any sleep and sometimes I sleep for hours and hours like a windows 98 screen saver: I’ll wake up, collect my thoughts, and fall right back into that brick maze screensaver we call dreams. I have a lot of dreams. In my latest dream from this morning (yes, I woke up to write and fell back asleep, shoot me) Derek Jeter re-instagramed a video of me that some guy — who I met in a previous dream—had already instagramed. SO Jeter, who has a bazillion followers, has just tagged me in a post and I’m all like… well this is clearly my big break. Now in my dream, I had the foresight to think, “OK, so all these people are going to go to my instagram and look at my latest photo…” my latest photo is a #selpee from the Met, which is good, but not as good as a photo with a bunch of inflatable penis balloons… which is just what happened to be in the room I was staying in. Also, this guy was trying to make me inhale black goop in order to clear my phlegm… all part of the same fucked up world that is my mind. Enjoy.
–Subway should go to jail for murdering Blimpie. We all saw it.
Previously on X:HBHBBM <– Click to read part 2
Hila the Killa gets a broken bike, she goes to fix it, finds a sexy bike master in the middle of a dust storm, he seduces her, he fixes her bike, she writes him a poem that she intends on mailing to him in a postcard. Beofre she sends it, she runs into him on the playa, so she recites the poem, he laughs uncomfortably, leaves. The Killa (still pedaling) writes the poem on a post card. She needs a sign…
Xaque: Hunky Bicycle Heart Breaker Bruise Maker (X:HBHBBM)
On the postcard to “Xaque,” the way I decided to spell his name after he refused to tell me if he was an “h” or a “k,” I wrote the sexy poem, I drew my tent so he could find it, I gave him my address (playa and real). Hey who knows, maybe this sexual experience is meant to be experienced in a less dusty environment. I took the postcard and went to find the post office. There’s a post office they said, its at 3 o’ clock!
Well it’s somewhere, so I get on an art car, a real old-timey, old-fashioned grandma is in the back cookin’ up an apple pie and Jimmy is shooting rocks in the back yard. Actually I think it was a western themed car. They gave me whisky, I told them I was a madam. Finally we had enough of each other and there were no tumbleweeds around to truly bring me back in time, so I hopped off. Where? Who knows. Fuck it. I don’t need directions: I just need my soul.
So I wander, looking for that office of post. I find three older men. They’re sitting, watching the city before them. They look so peaceful. I run up to them and ask, “Hey… do you know where the post office is?” They look at me in shock. I ruined all their peacefulness. “Um… well… I hate to break it to you, but you’re here.” All of the sudden I see I’m standing next to a giant mailbox. Like a 12ft mailbox with a red flag on the top. I couldn’t tell if I was a genius or just plain stupid. But hey I made it, I told them my story, I told them it all.
“So you know… we don’t technically start until tomorrow,” they say.
“That’s fine, I’m in no rush,” However, the universe had a different plan for me. All of the sudden a spunky young man named Kevin rolls up to the post office
“Is this the post office?!”
“Yes,” we all reply.
“So I can come and help you guys deliver mail right?” Kevin squeaks.
“You want to deliver something right now?” The old men have my back!
And off Kevin goes, into the wild, with my sexy postcard for Xaque. And I breathe because I know I’ll probably never see him again, and that’s okay because I’m learning to roll with the punches and enjoy the moment… or something.
Just keep pedaling. Just keep pedaling.
I guess I still had him on the mind: the whole day I wondered if he was going to drop by my camp. Eventually it was night and it was time to explore. Off we went into the illuminated neon alien planet we called home. There was a lot to see, a lot to do, you could never see the same thing twice, everything was moving very, very fast. And then in the distance… a skate park! A full-blown skateboarder ramp park with all these hot sk8r bois showing off their moves.
I used to skate in middle school —rather, I used to ride a skateboard on the West Side Highway past the skatepark and pretend like I wasn’t noticing all the boys woo at me — I was cool. ANYWAY, I’m getting excited. The little girl in me is ready to experience that kind of male attention again. I wasn’t sure I’d be able to do a ramp, but if I was… I’d be the coolest bitch there ever was. In the distance a young lad is fed up with his skateboard.
“Does anyone want this? I’m done!” He yells to the crowd.
I give it a moment and then push through the people “ME ME ME!! I DO!”
I run up to the ramp, grab the skateboard from this kids hands, look to my left, look to my right…
It’s Xaque standing next to me in all his splendor.
“Woah… no way,” I spew out.
“You skate?” He’s feeling it.
“Uh…yeah,” I’m lying.
“Cool,” Really feeling it.
“Did you get my post card?” I have to know.
The postal system works!
I get up on the ramp and look down. This isn’t going to work. Oh well. As the nose of my skateboard stays suspended in the air and I dive forward, I realize that there is no way I’m landing this, not in these shoes, not with this skateboard. CRASH. CRASH. CRASH. On the ground.
Next try. CRASH. Run right back up. CRASH. WIPE OUT. CRASH. I fucking crashed just running up the half-pipe and slamming my shin on the edge. I was a mess, I was a sputtering, spinning, running, high off adrenaline and psychopathic love mess. My friends were saying… LETS GO. And I said… no. I keep looking for Xaque, hoping he’d force me to stop with his penis.
A dust storm.
And all of a sudden the wind blows the dust away and I see Xaque and a beautiful girl sitting on the tallest ramp, kissing. Angels. They looked so in love and I was feeling that love. It was like taken straight out of a 1950’s movie where they were the bad kids and I was the nerd who was falling for the boy, but kept breaking her glasses and getting food stuck on her braces. But I love that movie! I stared at them for a while in admiration and then proceeded to wipe out 10 more times just to prove to myself that I wasn’t there for him… Because technically I wasn’t. I was there for the hot sk8r bois.
Not all stories have a “happy” ending… but this one “does.” Because Xaque was just a metaphor and clearly I had many lessons to learn. Just keep pedaling and love the bruises… oh the bruises. I gave my skateboard to Salty Nips and called it a night.
Back at camp, I laid in the big dome knowing that now it was time to fucking heal… heal the wounds and heal my heart…. My vagina was untouched (unfortunately). All of the sudden a flying wolf who can also spit fire walked into the dome. When he came to lay with me, I barely knew his name. All I knew was that he wanted to heal too… so he brought me a bandana to wrap my hand in and I wrote his wish in my book. He touched my hand so sweetly, he looked into my soul… Here we go again.
I’m going to leave you with that today… because, well, I’m getting emotional.
3 Ways to get emotional
- Eat chocolate ice cream until you puke chocolate ice cream
- Hate fuck everything
Until the skate ramps… or something