American Slobcore

I live with three very messy men. I myself am a huge slob. This makes for a roach-filled disease-pit of a rat-hole pigsty house.

It's hard for me to find places to live and even harder to find a landlord who is oblivious enough to let us stay there and destroy their property. We have been destroying this house for almost two years now, and I can't believe nothing has happened.

Maybe it's because we live on the hub of the crack center of Chicago and, even when a full streetlight collapses on the corner, nobody picks it up for weeks. The whores and drug dealers just step over it and wait for the live wires to come and electrocute one of the children.

Recently our landlord decided that this crack-pile of a neighborhood was not getting white fast enough for him, so he wanted to sell this place. In order to sell it, though, he has to show our half of the house. Good luck!
Since we live in a horrible shit den, the landlord hired maids who claimed to be really good at cleaning big fucking messes. These maids came over and told me, not to my total surprise, that this was one of the few places that they had ever seen that they would not even touch. That made me feel great. Fucking assholes.

My landlord's daughter lives beneath us and she's handling everything. She's about nine months pregnant and ready to explode out a parasite, so she's all bitchy and pissed that we have ruined the apartment.

This got me thinking about the probably 15 other places that I had lived in, however briefly, and how I've gotten evicted from each one of them. It's pretty amazing, some of the damage I have done.

In one house, I decided to raise chickens, and there was room in the backyard to have these chickens, and I was a good mom, except chickens shit … a lot. And having a concrete slab filled with chicken shit would piss our Ukrainian landlord off to hell. But his kids seemed to like the chickens.

Another landlord stormed in once, shut off the power, and told me and my roommates to leave by the next day or he would kill us all. Now I know that there is some kind of eviction process involving a lot of paperwork; I didn't know it involved threats on our lives.

But perhaps the worst I ever did--with the help of about 30 people in the matter of three months--was to completely destroy a storefront right next to the Congress Theater. The living situation started out very optimistically, with lots of promises of turning the place into a vegan coffee shop or some bullshit. Of course, it was not long until we got the vegans out and the crack addicts in.

My roommates and I then had a rave with about 600 people in the basement, and then a truck started parking across the street watching our every move. I felt really cool. There was something about having one of those trucks watching you, at least for me, that gave me some reason to live. It was even better than having a stalker.

We got paid in hits of acid to have the rave in our place so we, all 16 of us, were on various large amounts of acid and we just completely destroyed the place. Downstairs there were a bunch of ravers dancing and being idiots and upstairs there was us, a bunch of legally insane drug addicts ripping our own ceiling out and laughing hysterically about it.

I realized that some serious shit was happening when a pipe in the basement broke and water would not stop coming out of it. But I was way early in my thinking. I kept thinking it couldn't get worse and it did.

Someone threw a rock through the glass door. Air conditioning pipes fell out of the ceiling and were ripped to shreds. We had already had a hole in the bathroom wall big enough so that you could see anyone doing his or her business and watch whenever you wanted to, but I think the destruction culminated when the toilet was smashed--and the floor started flooding with shit.
That's how we knew the party was over, when the toilet died. It usually tells you something.

The next day our house was raided by cops and we had guns pushed up against our heads. We had a Mexican guy sleeping in the basement using his kilo of coke as his pillow. When the cops came in they were floored. But they did not find anything, very much to my surprise. Where did the crack pillow go?

One man showed me after the police had left. He pulled out all his back teeth and then dumped a bunch of rocks he had been hiding in there into my hands. I was thoroughly impressed.

This was all about six years ago. From there, my roommates moved into another poor unsuspecting house in Lincoln Park and our drug habits got bigger, I got more pets, and the house got completely destroyed in three months.
We had a dead raccoon named Chauncey in the freezer who was our pet and we would have visitors over and ask them to get us a beer out of the freezer and open it to find Chauncey's big glassy eyes and teeth flashing at them. This house was also oddly equipped with a pigeon coop. So occasionally we would get pigeons there with little bracelets on saying who they were. It was really exciting when one showed up.

The landlord of this place was this bizarre pervert who decided to show up at our house in a dress upon our moving in. He was extremely rich and lived next door and would have extravagant parties with underage girls where he would feed us coke and let us amuse his friends while they watched hardcore porn on this guy's huge television upstairs.
He soon got tired of us after he realized that we were destroying the fuck out of his shitty house next door. Then he told us that his uncle was the mayor and that our families were going to "live with the fishes" because of what we had done to his house. Again, this was not a tactic that I thought was a step in the usual eviction process, but what can you do?
We weren't normal tenants, and even though we paid the rent, we were very efficient at destroying places in very short amounts of time.

So here I sit now, six years later, in another house … waiting to get evicted. Maids won't clean it, and I wonder what the fuck the problem is. I like to blame it on everyone else, but the fact is that I'm just a fucking slob and that's all there is to it.

I lived with clean people once, and I kept the place clean, but that was almost worlds of time ago. In a different life. Maybe it can happen again, but it's hard to change when you wake up in a shitty filth-filled wastoid slob house and you surround yourself with wastoid cum-bags like me.

Do I even want things to change?

Sometimes I have to say no.

I'll probably live in roach-pits like this for the rest of my life, but that doesn't mean I'll ever stop complaining about it.

Home Sweat Home

This bustling shit-hole where I live - you wouldn't believe it.

This is where my roommate has a collection of my tampons, which I'm not supposed to know about, and where drunken prostitutes are brought in along with men who steal computers.

One of my roommates walks around in his underpants while another one--who is desperate not to see the guy in his underpants--turns the air down to under 50 degrees. The idea is that it will be too cold for anyone inside not to be fully dressed.

So I awake each day in an arctic fucking tundra and, yet, I still see that one roommate prancing around in his underpants.

This is also where the sounds of smoking crack are so often heard. All that "uggh-phhfoooo-uggh-huhh" … it sounds like a dying horse. And then come the coughs, the hacking sounds of death.

There's one crack smoker around here who at least gets nicer after a hit, but only for about 15 minutes. Then he turns into a raging asshole who steals from me and throws me into ashtrays. It's always fun to have bruises that you can’t explain.

When I walk into my front room, I find people that look dead holding cigarettes that have been lit and not smoked, creating an ash about five inches long. They have their fucking heads down.

This morning, a bootleg version of Snakes on a Plane blasted from the television. In between the disgusting sounds of sucking and coughing up crack, all I could hear was, "WHERE THE FUCK ARE THE FUCKING SNAKES?"

One junkie lit another cigarette and then passed out. I watched it wither down until it burned his fingers and he threw it out. Then he lit another one.

What the fuck am I doing here?

I think I'm addicted to these living situations. In order to find a fork, the house has to be thoroughly searched and then the fork has to be scrubbed before you can eat with it.

If I weren't on enough methadone to kill a man each day, this stuff might bother me. But it's fine. I especially love when my stuff gets stolen. That's always fun. I get to yell at everyone and then throw books at people’s heads, because that's the only way I know how to fight … to throw books and shoes.

And then, of course, my three male roommates don't hesitate to make a hole in the wall with me; domestic violence is fun. I've managed to be drunk and fuck almost every male roommate I've ever had.

Of the three I cohabit with now, I dated one for about five years, I had sex another one several times, and the third one claims that he and I had sex, but I don't believe we did. He's also the one that's obsessed with me and, I believe, collects my feminine products. It's all so endearing.

Meanwhile, I sit here on the computer typing out people’s deepest, darkest secrets and sharing them with the world. It's really horrible. But besides the methadone and Xanax abuse, writing about this shit is the only way to cope. It's unreal.

Sex was an escape for a while. Crack-stupor rape isn't exactly "rape," is it?

There's a question for the ages.

Here's another: How do you get a cat addicted to drugs? I have had so many pets addicted to drugs it’s not even funny. There was one cat in particular.

My friend had after-hours parties for raves about ten years back and everyone would get all fucked up and drop their coke all over the floor, along with Ecstasy pills and whatever else you can think of, and this cat would eat it all. He was a total drug addict. People would think this behavior was abhorrent, but my friend was so proud that his cat was a drug vacuum cleaner.

This same fuck used to put my little bunny in a box and blow crack smoke into it. I don't like that shit. My poor little bunny. This man should be put away for sure. The poor thing grew a tumor and then some fuckhead dyed it purple.

There were two cats there too; no one would buy them food. My roommate would steal hot dogs for the cats and the cats would be eating the hotdogs and this poor rabbit was so hungry that it would bumrush the fucking cats to get to the hotdogs, so not only was the rabbit a crackhead, but it was carnivorous.

I once had a wonderful cat who looked just like Sarah Jessica Parker, but one day she got real horny so I let her out to go fuck this cat because the noises she was making were driving me fucking insane and she left, running away with her boyfriend.

18 And Life

1. There is a 60-year-old woman whose diet consisted of pickles and cheap wine and she got a big red blotch all over her butt and crotch. It's really gross. I want to make sure I don't have that happen to me. But that's the direction in which I'm headed.

2. My doctor prescribed for me a medication to curb my drinking habits. One of the most common side effects is suicide attempts. One of the less common ones is sudden death. Sure beats drinking though. I wonder what would happen if they interfered, and while I was trying to kill myself, I experienced sudden death. At any rate, I know the doctor is trying to kill me.

3. There is a crack addict in my neighborhood named Jerry. One time his foot was bleeding, so I helped him clean it off and he gave me the world's smallest deck of tarot cards. Then he asked me if the drapes matched the carpet. He was really insistent on knowing, so I told him the carpet was infested with genital warts.

4. I have a relative named Jay who is gay and has AIDS and he wears a "Git 'er dun" hat. He's a huge perv and on top of all of the HIV meds he's on he drinks tons of alcohol. He ripped the sprinkler system out of a Cook County Jail cell. Then when he got out, he called those cops repeatedly and apologized, until they arrested him again for harassment.

5. Oprah is a defective monster.

6. I bought a load of Teddy Ruxpin dolls from eBay, and none of them work. I want to do a perverse show with Teddy, but I fear I will never get a real one. This lady I talk to completely anthropomorphizes the bear and never refers to it as it, always he. She says, for example, that "he had surgery on his neck," rather than "his neck was broken." She's fucking weird. She keeps sending me these broken bears, but she claims they work. I'm afraid to send them back now, because I think she thinks I might be breaking them, which I am not, but I think she's too senile to be selling things on eBay.

7. Pubic hairs are really hard to get out of the bottom of a tub. When I try to shave my crotch, it looks like a rat with mange is hanging out on my vadge.

8. I need to figure out at which point I should die so as to prolong my fame.

9. I cannot believe Ted Nugent has his own reality show and the prizes are like $500 for, like, wading thigh-deep through a sea of diarrhea only to find an American flag and salute it, and while you're covered in the diarrhea, to take the flag and plant it into the body of a chicken without a head.

10. Pubic warts clear themselves. It's great. But I just saw this fucking dermatologist book with tons of pictures of a snatch with a ton of them and it was really sick. I hope I don't turn into that.

11. I'm hungry.

12. That fucking surfer with one arm has a book out, so why the fuck don't I? It's all about God. It sucks. I want her to die. She can only swim in circles. What a fucking blessing.

13. I knew a girl that got cat scratch fever for real and she turned into a real bitch.

14. Someone I know just got a $10 pan set and he already fucked up a pan after one day when he decided to boil eggs while he was really drunk and passed out over the eggs and they got boiled into the pan, thereby ruining the $10 dollar pan set in a day.

15. Meg Ryan's lips look like two worms fornicating. Too much botox!

16. I love to watch fat mothers beat their children in grocery stores.

17. Once I dated a guy for six whole months and the highlight of the whole relationship was getting semi-raped by his friend who was really semi-retarded. He was slow like Lenny from Of Mice and Men.

18. My mother having breast cancer was not a good memory for me, but there was this one photo of her that I still cannot stop laughing at where she has no hair and a birthday hat on for my birthday party. It's lovely.

Pizza Bunny Exposed!

Looking back on certain fucked-up aspects of my childhood lately--and, believe me, there are a lot--I recently got to reflecting on how our local Pizza Bunny family restaurant franchise was the most completely fucked-up place I've ever been to in my life.

Whoever came up with the Pizza Bunny concept must have been some fat, greasy pervert. It was a loud, flashy combination of video games and singing animal robots surrounding tables where you could eat crappy food. In that way, Pizza Bunny was like a lot of other chain restaurants, but more of my friends managed to get molested there in a shockingly short amount of time than any other place that I can remember.

It's all still so vivid to me: Pizza Bunny's waste-soaked playgrounds and ball pits and tunnels and hard wood and hot slides that I would split my lips on because I would slip and fall. There were also tube slides I'd get stuck in and almost suffocate because some lard ass decided to go ahead of me and plug the shit up. This was by far the dirtiest, most disgusting playland I've ever been to. Still!

First and worst of all, there was this area which could not have been designed for anything else except for defiling the innocent. It was a room that was about 12 feet by 12 feet and whatever genius designed it decided that it would have lights that would go on for about 20 seconds, and then flash on and off, and then it would stay dark for like two full minutes. More than enough time to for a short blowjob, or hand-job, or use your imagination.

I remember the ceiling was really low, designed for little people only, and it seemed empty a lot, but these pock-marked sleazeballs used to sneak in there and grope away. It happened all the time.

My father was a sick man and never hesitated to tell me about sex crimes against the under-aged. I think he got off on it in some weird way.

But, being an only child, I often would venture into Pizza Bunny's most foreboding chamber by myself. It reeked like a Port-A-Potty. Everything there was constantly being pissed on, but I'll get into that later. Sometimes kids would even shit in there. Still, I'd go in for a "surprise" until, after a few years of complaints, Pizza Bunny shut that room down.

Years later, I went to Chicago's premiere gay porn theater/cruising joint, The Bijou. As I took in the Bijou's smell of open-asshole and cum, while I was cruising down blow job alley, gazing at the glory holes, I was reminded of Pizza Bunny.

I'm surprised that Pizza Bunny didn't have a sex-swing suspended from its ceiling somewhere. Maybe it did, and I never noticed it. I was too busy wondering what weirdo was lurking in the corner eyeing me up and down back then. It was a similar feeling to that I had when I visited The Bijou, except they do have a sex swing. I think whoever designed The Bijou must have had something to do with the design of that Pizza Bunny.

The Pizza Bunny ball pit was another treat. It seems like most places would keep their ball pits at around two feet deep, so that you could easily move around and stand up if you had to. The Pizza Bunny ball pit went four feet down.

I remember this because, many times, my small ass got trapped underneath the balls and some stinking, shit-covered piglet climbed on top of me and I almost suffocated. My mom also told me that she had many memories of me disappearing in the ball pit for hours on end.

For some reason, kids reverted to hamster behavior in the pit. Each ball had its own special scent of piss and shit mixed with barf and bologna--the way that kids who smell each have their own smell.

At least at the splooge-basted Bijou, they hose the equipment off, and I'm sure that similar bodily fluids were not foreign to this ball pit. It was so sick. And getting stuck in there and trying to come up for air when some 200-pound blob with big gym shoes is stepping on your head is not pleasant.

I don't understand why the pit was four feet deep, except so that adults could wade in for whatever purpose. Yes, they allowed adults in the ball pit.

And then there were the tunnels.

The tunnels, again, were big enough for adults, so they'd stuff their fat asses into them and create huge traffic jams. I recall, on certain occasions, unfortunately running into some nasty perv who had plopped into the tube and then having them proposition me.

Actually "proposition" is not quite the right word. I didn't know what they were doing at the time, but an adult sitting in a piss-stained tunnel--just, like, "hanging out"--is a rather bizarre sight.

They were probably the ones pissing in there too, because the kids were running around, but the adults would just stay in one place and try to play with random kids. Even at a young age I remember thinking this place was fucked up.

Another time the Pizza Bunny himself--some teenager in an Italian rabbit costume--came out and tried to choke me when I hugged him. I mean, he just choked me, and I wasn't one of those asshole kids that like fucked with him or pulled on his tail or tried to knock his head off. All I did was go up to the Pizza Bunny and try to hug him and he fucking choked me.

After about 70 reports of wrong-doing, the authorities tore down the Pizza Bunny and made way for a less fucked up Little Caesars. It was sort of sad to see it go, because I cannot remember a single place that was so sleazy.

Pizza Bunny was a beautiful place. It was where I learned to feel love, and I will never forget it.

Cracking No Smiles

Crack. Mental Death. Takes your fucking life away so fast you don't know when it left or how. There's no camaraderie with this shit. It's every fucking man for himself.

Do you know how they got kamikaze pilots to fly their fucking planes into buildings and single people? They gave them speed. Methamphetamine. And suddenly they were insane people ready to die at any moment for some abstract cause that they didn't even really care about.

At least now with the suicide bombers they have a cause. They want to fuck the 73 virgins or whatever is waiting for them after they blow their precious bodies into little pieces in order to destroy whatever worthless crap happens to be within 25 feet of them.

But those kamikazes, they had no cause except fucking meth. Now I hear that governments are feeding soldiers Provigil, pharmaceutical grade methamphetamine, but not really telling them what it is, to make them better at what they do.

All the soldiers know is that it makes them feel like they're fucking Godzilla, so they take it. Fuck, I don't blame them, how the fuck else are you supposed to live with the stink of rotten death and the sound of women getting raped and their babies crying?

So the soldiers take the drugs and it turns them into supermen. And they fuck and kill all they want.

Here's what I do:

I come home on a Tuesday night, walk past the fucking street light that has fallen down on the corner and has been lying in the grass for the past two weeks.

This is the corner that must have been forgotten by the world because no one cares to even remove this hideous reminder of what everyone in this dreadful place has turned into. The whores just step over it on their way to the alley to get gang raped and choked and then kissed on the cheek by nigger after nigger after nigger. I step over it too. What the fuck else can I do? I'm not going to plant a fucking flower.

I climb up the dreadful dark staircase up to my apartment to reveal a dingy unwashed room. Filth. There is nothing more to do about this though. I continue to live in filth because that is where I belong. It means so little to me. Just like sex. And the filth consumes every facet of my life.

Six people are in the house. Tonight, for some reason, they are not their normal depressed, gray, fat-socket faces that I see every day. Today, they are jovial, interacting with one another. I don't quite understand it. They are not depressed and passed out on couches that are half eaten away by piss and roaches.

There are no dead raped rats flopped over garbage on the floor. Suddenly the meaning of all of this hits me though, and I realize what is going on.

Crack.

This house is cheap. And ugly. Gross. Pathetic. And less than nothing to me. Shit. Garbage. Small. Fat. Sweaty. Dark. It's so hard to convey. But why the fuck not smoke crack when you're here?

I try to stay away from crack because the last time I tried it, I found myself, after a binge, sitting on a piss-stained mattress, staring at a television and trying to forget that a greasy impotent scumbag that I have been avoiding for years has his tongue in my vagina and I am waiting for the five minutes to be up, so that I can have the two hits that he promised me after this horrible act of self sacrifice is done.

But then the fucker got up and belched into my face, blasting me with the smell of my own pussy mixed with crack mixed with a garlicky gyro from six hours ago. It wasn't humiliating, though it should have been.

Surveying the scene at home and thinking back on that, I seem to have forgotten for a quick second everything that is going on, waiting for that promise of my lips wrapped around that glass pipe for two more seconds.

I just sit and wait in my sleazing, belly-mulching existence. I smell death, but forget about it. This has happened before and I'm not unfamiliar to it. It'll happen again too. It's fine. I am a beautiful girl, and people don't know about this. And what the fuck do I care if they do. So I'll tell them all. Promise of this feeling for free is worth it. The feeling that nothing exists anymore, and I can be in any place at any time and be perfectly content with it.

War. Decay. Disease. Filth. Darkness. Dirt. Garbage. Foulness. Impurity. Violence. I understand a kamikaze pilot. I understand suicide bombers. I understand doing everything and not caring.

I let the crack-doling creep stick his asshole in my face and my fingers digging shit out of him. Digging. I look at my shit-smeared knuckles and shit-stained forearms and I hear all his bends and grunts and growls and I feel a liquor-soaked need to plow in deeper and deeper until I pass out with the hot mess on my chest, along with his wrinkled dick and collapsed balls amid the hot morning flies and roaches.

It's good. It's okay. Everything is.