Thursday, May 29, 2008

Scientology is fucking scary!

When I was like 14, I ran away to Hollywood. I know it's very cliche but I was not trying to become a movie star or any shit like that, I was such a dumb fuck kid that taking off to L.A. to live on the streets seemed like a brilliant idea. Sooo punk rock man, we (my dumb shit friends and I) would meet up with other kids and end up squatting in some train wreck of a building for a couple of months or so before getting burned out and going home. But, while we were there all kinds of crazy shit would go on. We would panhandle all day for beer and drugs and then spend the night getting fucked up and going to shows.
Sometimes we would go back to the squat and party there. One night, this guy (I had been fucking him since my second night in town), went fuck knows where and came back with a severed human head. I'm fairly sure he didn't saw it off himself but it kinda freaked me out anyway. He was holding it by the hair and swinging it around. He later told me that him and some of the other guys had found it out under the freeway overpass. It took me about a week to purge the image (not to mention smell) from my mind and let him near me again. Stupid, I know but I've always had a weakness for for cute gutter-punk types with fucked up problems. The psycho aspect gets me all hot!
Anyway back to the point, even though that was some pretty scary fucked up shit, it doesn't even compare to my near abduction by the Church of Scientology.
We would bum change all up and down Hollywood Blvd., between Gower and La Brea. It was all mucked up with tourists who would pay to take their picture with us. It was also lousy with Scientologists. They would be everywhere, handing out pamphlets, talking to people on the street and trying to get them to go test at their little headquarters around the corner.
We always managed to avoid too much contact with them because they were a little creepy. OK, alot creepy. Anyone who believes in an alien religion, founded by a science fiction writer who spent the majority of his life on a boat frolicking naked with underage boys is alot creepy.
So it went, until one day a few of us were way too wired. It was the kind of wired where really stupid ideas seem absolutely brilliant. We decided to go and find out what was really going on in that blacked out store front they congregated in. For some reason they were always trying to get us street kids to go in and test. My friend Sara said it was because they thought we were all runaways that wouldn't be missed when they drugged us and sold us into white slavery. White slavery not withstanding we bit the bullet and went in.
It was like something out of low budget 80's sci-fi movie. There were all these little cubicles and in each one there was a machine that looked kinda like a lie detector, with all these wires and monitors hooked up.
They took each one of us into a cubicle and told us they were going to test our bio-rhythms, like brain waves and shit. I ended up with little suction cups on my forehead, a cuff around my arm and little electrodes stuck on my fingers. (I was so fucking spun that the heart monitor was jumping all over the place). Then they started asking all sorts of weird questions and seeing how my brain reacted to certain keywords. It was fucking insane! I was just starting to unplug myself and get the hell outta there when the Grand High Headcase (the guy in charge) came over and stopped me.
He put his arm around my shoulders and was starting to edge me towards a door at the back of the room. He was talking all kind of crazy shit about my test results, saying that I had scored unusually high and that they needed to test me further. I tried to pull back but he just held on tighter, telling me that I would be much better off if I went with him. He would see that I didn't have to live on the streets anymore. They would take care of me and take me somewhere nice to live, with people who just wanted to help me.
I started to freak the fuck out!
I screeched for my friends and smacked the shit out of Dr. Strange. We made it out of there eventually but managed to wreck most of their shit and a good number of L. Ron Hubbard disciples in the process . Running out the door and onto the street we didn't stop till we got a few blocks down and around a corner. No one wanted to get arrested. After I calmed down I told everybody exactly what went down.
By that time some of the other kids had joined us and were listening as well. When I finished my story, one of them started laughing, he said that I had just narrowly missed being shipped off to a scientology boot camp. He said that they have these places where it is like a high security research facility, if you score high enough, they take you there and put you through extensive testing and reprogramming. He also said that the point of all that shit was to find the person who was the chosen one, their Messiah. That all those tests were supposed to determine if your body make-up contained a high concentration alien DNA.
L. Ron Hubbard (the pedophile sci-fi writer) had prophesied that this chosen one would be found sometime at the end of the 20th century and I guess they were getting desperate, it was after all 1997. I just laughed off the kid's story, thinking he was trying to fuck with my head and decided to forget all about it. I was cool until one of the girls back at the squat came up to me and told me that Jimmy (the kid) had run away from his parents because they were hard-core scienntologists. They had tried to commit him to a facility because they couldn't control him anymore and he wanted nothing to do with their crazy beliefs.
It was soon after that Jimmy just disappeared, he was there one day and gone the next. Some of the kids said they saw him get pulled into a car off Cherokee, that it was his parents. I decided to move on. I didn't go back to Hollywood for a long time. Even if the kid was full of shit, I had just enough sense not to push my luck.
Now, I haven't thought about that shit in years, I guess I had all but forgotten, until my Doctor's appointment that is. She told me that she wanted me to have a consultation with a post- withdrawal anxiety specialist. I agreed, hoping that I might score some xanax or clonopin for my "anxiety". It was all good until about five minutes into it , when the guy pulled out a set-up that looked like a modern version of the Messiah detector. I about shit myself when he said that he thought I would do best with bio-feedback therapy and tried to hook me up to it. I was out that door so fucking fast it was like that shit you see on Scooby-Doo, where their legs are just a blurry circle going round and round. I thought about it later and came to the decision that a whole roomful of decaying body parts would be preferable to another run in with the Sientologists. They are way fucking scarier than dead stuff.
I occasionally tease my boyfriend C. and tell him that seeing him swinging that head around is what made me fall in love with him.

Tuesday, May 27, 2008

Nazis in Nurses' Uniforms!

I don't want you to laugh but I am afraid of needles. I always have been. While I have no problem poking and jabbing myself repeatedly, let someone else try it and I'm outta there. Case in point, I could not begin to count the number of times that I have been asked to hit people but I can count on one hand the number of times I've let someone hit me. Pretty retarded for an IV user I know and it only gets better. I have been shooting up since I was 16 and I had shitty veins to begin with. It took me about a year to tap out my arms, then a little later my hands went. Then I moved to my tits, shoulders, legs, feet etc. until I had to start muscling my shots. Hello abscess city. Anyway, by medical standards it is a miracle that my hands and feet haven't dropped off from lack of circulation.
So needless to say it it just about impossible to get any kind of blood work done when I go to the doctor. It would probably help if the needle wielding Nazi they call a Phlebotomist would shut her yap and listen to me for a minute. I don't think there is anybody on this earth who knows my body better that I do, especially when it comes to finding veins. But No! The bitch just rolls her eyes and ignores me, doing her best to win the cunt of the year award.
Check it out, I'm a junkie not a moron. Alot of people may not be aware of the fact that, !BEING A DRUG ADDICT DOES NOT MEAN YOU ARE A MORON! It means you're human, and prone to questionable decisions, not retardation.

Attention Cunt Nurses!

When I tell you that there is not a snowball's chance in hell that you are going to get blood from my arms, believe it. Do not, I repeat do not nod at me and go about your business, skewering my arms anyway and then looking disgusted when nothing happens. I fucking told you so!
Then they have nerve to get mad. I had one nurse tell me that it was only right that I suffer since it was my own fault that had no veins left. My mom had to jump to keep my hands from wrapping around the bitch's throat.
So, all this blah blah blah is leading up to the fact that I have a doctors appointment tomorrow. To get blood drawn. I am not ecstatic.
After the last time, when Nurse-zilla threw up her hands in defeat, I was told that my only option was an art-stick. Most long term needle freaks know what this is. If you are not one of the chosen ones let me enlighten you.
An art stick is what they do when they have no other options. It means going to the hospital because it is too dangerous to do in the office. It means letting a doctor take a long-ass spike and insert it into one of your main arteries! Aside from the fact that it hurts like a motherfucker, it is scary as hell.
It may surprise you to know, but bleeding to death under the skin is not on my 'Top ten favorite ways to die' list. It ranks up there with burning to death in a flaming wreck and being drawn and quartered. No thanks.
Fucking up an art-stick is the equivalent to slicing someones jugular, it bleeds out so quick there's not much you can do about it, it's just over. I will be God damned if I am letting Dr. Diazepam anywhere near my femoral artery! Not gonna happen. I just hope that the 51/50 patients rights waiver has expired. Wish me luck. Melody

Monday, May 26, 2008

Different name same game

So I have been a phone hooker off and on for years. I always fell back on it cause it was a pretty easy job to do even loaded out of my mind. And even better, if I was dope sick I could fuck off and not answer till I felt like it (copped and fixed).
This is somewhat different from being an actual prostitute, as anyone who has ever had to suck a dick while dope sick can testify.
Tip: tricks hate getting puked on and may become violent.
Anyway, as much as I loved being able to lay around getting high all day, it just didn't offer the same job satisfaction as ho-ing. Mainly the instant (or almost instant) gratification.
There is nothing like starting the day with nothing but a shitty wake-up and ending it a few hours later with drugs and cash in hand. Talk about positive re-enforcement. To a junky, knowing that you can make enough money in one day to stay fucked up for two is irresistible. I know, everyone always asks the same thing, "What about self-respect? Don't you have any?"
Check it out, I got it by the truck load, I just don't see what I did as anything to be ashamed of. I took care of myself . I didn't have to rely on anyone but me. My family didn't have to shoulder the burden of my addiction. I made enough to look after me and some of my friends if they were hurtin'.
If fucking for money was not the greatest experience that's what auto-pilot is for ( anyone who ever worked the streets knows what I mean by auto-pilot). I was self sufficient and didn't rip people off to get that way. That is alot more than I can say for most of the other Dope fiends I know.
I'm proud of the fact that I can say I was able to maintain and help out the people that matter to me and although I may have some regrets, maybe wish some things had turned out differently, I am not ashamed of anything I have ever done.
That said I am no longer a street ho. If anyone has read my previous posts then you know it's not from some misguided sense of rightness that I quit but rather a change of location and the fact that my boyfriend C. is one UPTIGHT! motherfucker. He can't even see a hooker in a movie without getting a shitty look on his face. You can definitely say that he has issues with my past profession. He was a smack head too but I never turned tricks while we were together (only after he left :). Anyway he has a huge attitude about the whole thing.
I always defend myself by saying that at least when I was fucking around it was for money not fun as opposed to when he was fucking around it was just to get his dick wet. Sufficed to say he is not impressed by my reasoning. This is all really a moot point seeing as how I am no longer strung out and don't plan to return to Cali anytime soon (unfortunately). There really is no chance of me going back to ho-ing (not really anyway). I love C., the asshole and want to keep things good between us and if that means staying in this shit town and being sober so be it.
However I do think it is rather funny that C. seems to have no problem with me going back to phone-bone. I mean come on that's cutting it a little thin isn't it? I still talk to strangers about performing sexual acts and I still get paid for it. I guess it's all in the way you look at it. To me it's all part of the same trade, the "SEX" trade.
But I suppose if being able to call me a telecommunications specialist instead of a whore makes him happy, who am I to criticize. Street ho, phone ho, telecoms specialist I can see the natural progression. As I always said. "It's a fine line but if I can see it that's all that matters."
I told my friend Patty that now I suck dick over the phone instead of in person. Being a former ho herself, she thought this was hilarious. M.

Sunday, May 25, 2008

I'm a modern kind of girl.

I have been thinking of writing my memoirs. I have had a semi-interesting life, junkie/drug dealer, junkie/phone sex operator, junkie/prostitute, junkie/... well you get the idea. I think maybe there's a theme there somewhere but I just can't put my finger on it.
Anyway, I think I will concentrate my efforts on chronicling the last two years. I think that given the amount of time I spent in and out of jail, strange cars, motel rooms and consciousness it should be a real page turner. It's not really as tragic as it sounds; I got to make so many new friends. I even explored the possibility of becoming a part-time crack head. Not as unappealing as you would think, strangely enough.
As for titles, I did have a few ideas but I think that I have to go with favorite. My manifesto will be:


A Modern Girl's Guide to Independent Living

I think it has a nice ring to it, don't you think? It will be all about me and my circle of like-minded gal pals (God, that's a nauseating term), entrepreneurs if you will. I will alter names only slightly, ensuring that anyone the least bit familiar with us will immediately be able to put face to name. The adventures of me and my posse o' hos : Whora, Kneelcole, Melicksuck and so on. I really don't think they'll mind, after all it is the truth and truth is eternal.
I will be unfailingly honest as I set the scene. Be prepared to learn how to deal with cheap tricks, undercover vice and backstabbing bitches who are just jealous cause you have all of your teeth and are under the age of 65. Learn fool-proof methods for discouraging the unwanted attentions of the local crack dealer/pimp and be able to walk away afterwards. And my personal favorite, how to collect from a reluctant john using nothing but a bloody needle and a few choice phrases like, "I may have forgotten to mention..." or "Cash or contamination motherfucker!" You get the picture.
Another highlight will be "The mystery of the missing condoms/that cunt took my shit!" detailing a normal day in our insulated little world of 'gash for cash'.
I do miss the girls so much. I hope they will be eager to read my little opus, as eager as I am to write it. Besides mom will be so proud of her little girl, the author. M.