Swing shift Leonard

Swing shift leonard and the omega fatty acids was the 'it' band of 1986 with their sizzling single, I want to make a danceparty in yr pants.
I don't remember writing that at all.
Swing shift leonard was a wannabe pimp who pulled for a place called Ernestine & Hazel's around the turn of the century. He is so named because of his constant attempts to turn out waitresses working the afternoon or early morning shifts. Apparently he would haunt coffee shops and seedy restuarants flashing money on the scene, and generally acting like, well, a pimp. We know all of this because he turned out bluesman C.C. Turner's girl, who went to work for the aforementioned E&H. Turner went nuts over the whole thing and stormed the place; shooting Leonard, the barman, and several of the other girls before stabbing his woman estelle and the man she was with some 57 times. Then he turned the gun on himself.
Somehow I think there's a lesson in all that.

Also!

Everybody wants to be my friend...How does the rest of that song go? I can't remember. Maybe I'll ask Amy Winehouse's crack smokin' ass. How in the hell do you get caught smoking crack? If I were a crackhead, I would keep that shit on the downlow except with my other crack smoking buddies. Do you really want to end up on you-tube in the cracksmoke showcase, because that's how it's gonna go.
I don't have anything against crack really. It just seems like the barrel scraping bottom, kind of nasty, like shooting crank. I met these kids once many years ago who used to shoot crank, and man were they some off the wall fuckin' freaks. They were some country boys from down South who were just bored and that's how it ended up. A lesson to all you parents out there, activities for kids might just save them from a lifelong habit of junking up their veins with the nastiest drug on the planet.
Actually, I heard about this drug a couple of years ago called cat, not ketamine mind you, that's K. It was some wierd designer drug that this dude from a drug company cooked up and tested on himself somehow. Apparently the stuff was off the charts addictive, and the guy and his friends just totally lost their shit. Some of them ended up dead overdosed, others in jail, and the lucky ones just ended up in rehab climbing the walls. They had some before and after pictures of the main guy who invented the shit. Wow, he went from nerd-o chemist to major league cracked out junkie in just two or three months. It was some scary shit. I may on occasion abuse various substances, but I know enough to stay away from that designer shit. Well, most of the time.
One time, this girl who was dating a friend of mine had a bottle of this clear liquid. Somehow I ended up with the shit and a couple of us just went at it taking swigs of the stuff until her boyfriend saw us and freaked. Apparently she had been selling the stuff and would measure it out in milliliters with a little mouth syringe, and we were just drinking the stuff like it was water. Let me tell you that was an intense next few days.

Ha, it's the lif...where's the

Where's the money when I hit the floor? Trace the image in the pancake batter of breakfast cereal for two dimes and a hot cup 'a joe. What does it all mean?
I spent the last several hours cleaning the underside of my kitchen cabinets with meticulous and mindnumbing intensity, and without the expected help of speed, meth, or anything except my own mania. Who does this kind of shit? Really, if yr out there I would love to know. Maybe not you exactly, but about you. There's never been a time in my life when I didn't crave the kind of order and certainty that this world gaurantees that you'll never get. I remember being a small child. Wow did that suck! I'm losing myself down a k-hole right now. You'll have to forgive me or curse me to the dimlit of eternity. I know voodoo too.

Today...

I get the feeling sometimes that I'm an also ran. Like one of those people in one of the spin off network TV shows like One Tree Hill, except not as pretty. I feel like the script of my life is B grade material at best, and it makes me want to cry sometimes. It is really liberating to just let it all the fuck out like it's not embarassing that I'm completely afraid of leaving my apartment or that I get so depressed sometimes I don't move or eat or do anything for days on end.
Banker is understanding about it, but he worries about me a lot, which is sweet. It helps that someone gives a shit. The BDA does too. He even tried to get me to go out a couple of months ago. I had a complete panic attack before we even got to the first floor. I was in the stairway hyperventilating in a total spazzout, and he had to fireman carry me back to the apartment. That was the last time I tried to go out.
Maybe that's what I feel like I'm missing. All that's outside, but it just scares the shit out of me. All those strange people. I don't really know what it is, but I just can't even imagine going out there. Mostly I don't have any reason too. Everything I need I can get brought to me, so why go to them. Drugs, food, even people have to come to me. It's empowering in a wierd way. I know I shouldn't embrace this off the wall living, but I like it. It's who I am.

Why am I still living?

I've thought about killing myself. And not just in the kind of oh-wo-is-me-I-wish-I-were-dead kind of way either. I mean the real thing. Turning off the phone, locking the door, and taking the whole bottle of pills kind of suicidal ideation. Not the small cutting bullshit. I don't know why I don't.
I guess it's cause of Banker. He's like my priest in some ways. He protects me from the world, but also helps enable me to not have to really deal with any of my shit. I guess he loves me, and I guess I might love him if I could or knew how or wanted to know how. Emotionally I'm pretty tone deaf to anything but my own megalomaniacal parabolic arcs. Maybe if he didn't keep me hidden away in this little brownstone apartment, I wouldn't be so glib about it, but he does, so I am.
You see Banker is a very rich and very powerful man, and he fears more than anything in the world that people in his world will discover the truth. The horrible closet inducing truth; that banker is gay.
Come on, right? It's the twenty-first century already. That's what I used to tell him when we first met, but I gave up after he started paying all my bills. I felt like I owed him, oh I don't know, a little comfort, even if it was a false and withering comfort.
Why am I telling you all this? I don't really know. My friend, The Brown Dog Affair, is all about this blogging stuff, and he's been trying really hard to get me to reengage a little bit, so I joined his little literary criticism blog, and now here I am. I really do kinda' like the blatant exhibitionism. I actually miss that in my totally agoraphobic life. Well, enough on this for now.