It wasn’t an unusual day for me, per se. The only odd part was that someone caught it on camera. (Though I don’t appear until 38 seconds into this video.)
But yes, this video represents pretty much ANY ol’ day for me now. After gulping down my usual 1500 ml of HGH, washed down with a washer’s tub full of espresso, I go down to “rave” with the youngsters in the streets of Europe. Where I live. (I live in Europe.)
As always, I’m forced to grab some Day-Glo-wig-hating slam dancer and make him simmer down before he hurts the many women I protect. He goes away, but not far enough… so I have to point at him for a while. GO, I say with this. GO NOW, or: consequences.
That done, I take a little stroll to clear my head and think: just what IS next for my beard?
Former MST3K writer Paul Schersten sees I’m that distracted, yet dangerously dehydrated…. so he puts a water bottle directly in front of my face. I accept it, and I’m grateful, but force myself not to show it. I musn’t! Weakness = death. The Day-Glo-wig-haters are always watching!
But the water does something to me, man….
I HAVE TO DANCE. And Lord, do I dance! Yes, I need to keep walking as I do, of course — many women to protect, much ground to cover! so many wigs!! — but the music and I become one pulsating, slightly spasmodic entity. I do kung fu moves against an army of attacking invisible hyenas for a while, but never leave my State of Oneness with the Dance.
…until crap!…I suddenly do. Until “dance” suddenly SUCKS, and is the most ridiculous, shameful waste of energy in which a woman-protector like myself could indulge. What in the name of Nitzer Ebb was I THINKING?… twitching, shuffling, and man-bouncing like some fool?!?!
Some skinny guy in sunglasses offers me sweet relief, a temporary respite from my ruthless self-questioning, in a form of a…a brown…strip… of some kind? A brown strip with… writing on it? What the hell is — ?… IS that writing? I don’t know. It doesn’t distract me nearly long enough, and I tear it up in casual disgust.
…but then. THEN! The music-magic-mind-meld comes creeping back. Slowly at first, sure — some fellow Europeans talk to me briefly (I live in Europe), and almost interrupt the volcano activating itself again. But they’re no challenge to its driving force, and my now-cresting caffeine / HGH cocktail.
The DANCE is back! I am it, it is me, and we create new universes with every movement, all the way past the Preiswert Radfahren store, my pulsating pectoral muscles new nations in themselves. (E.U. nations, of course.)
This is the moment, the moment for which I have always existed.
…But then my owner comes and pulls me away by my dog tags.
Another dream dies. Another Fuckparade ruined.
I assume this happens to you a lot, too? It’s like every day, with me. I’m in a rut.
[UPDATE by Bill: Obviously, I haven't kept that ripped figure lately, despite tripling my HGH intake. I had two children in the past three years, so it must be the baby weight. I just can't take it off!!]