Excerpt: Where I End and You Begin

The last occupant of the holding cell had short black hair and a face that could only belong to a veteran of the war on drugs. You know, on the drugs’ side. Meth has thoroughly ravaged her facial features, and I couldn’t look at her for too long without wincing at newly found imperfections. No, not imperfections: the word I was looking for was “holes.” As if that was not enough, her clothing gave away her profession. Great, I thought. I’m stuck in a women’s holding cell with trashed rich party girl, grandmother DV, the ugliest hooker I have ever seen, and the girl who choked me to death. This is like the girl’s locker room fantasy gone horribly, horribly wrong.

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. I am not one of those turtleneck and beret wearing art students with a thin goatee and a tendency to stroke it thoughtfully after pausing in front of a practically empty canvas for five to ten minutes, all the time stroke that sad little goatee and going “Hmm… interesting” thoughtfully, as if nobody else understands the things that went into the creation of art, as if he was the only person who understood the artist was trying to accomplish. He probably had taken a couple of classes on Art history and immediately thought of himself as some sort of expert of the field. Fuckers. Impostors. Take your fucking pretentious piece of shit attitude and shove it up your ass. There was a group of these people in the pop art area, and they were waxing poetic about commercial art, the most soulless art there is. Shut the fuck up about “feelings” and “artistic vision” and “transcending genres,” it is the painting of a fucking bushel of corn you fucking nitwit.