For Nikki (2)

For Nikki.

You know your life is going down the shitter when you can’t remember why you like doing the things you do. I mean, that’s when you know you are absolutely fucked, when you don’t remember why you like pissin outdoors, or watching the ballgame, that’s the crowning moment in the kingdom of “you're fucked” land. I hear psychologist call it a “mid-life crisis”. Shit, I had it when I was 20.
I remember it. I was standing, just waiting for the light rail to get in from uptown, watching the punk rock kids silently bob their heads to blink-182, or some other shit on their ipods ( the fucking posers wouldn’t know good punk if it slapped’em in the face, give them some Sex-Pistols, Ramones and the Clash, and those fucks will call them oldies) and it was hot and irate, and I was winded and sweaty from dodging traffic, and it just hit me like a ton-a-bricks, I hated this shit. I hated standing at that station every Goddamn day, I hated walking two and half-miles from it to work at some fuck-tard coffee shop, and I especially hated watching those punk-rock wannabe dip-shits, bobbing their heads to absolute petulance. I hated my friends, I hated listening to them, I hated watching them, I hated the way Susan did her hair, I hated the way Jamie played his bass lines, I hated Eric, I hated his cat (a little puff-ball, it always tripped over itself, and never landed on all four feet) I hated my shoes, I hated the bus, I hated just about everything, and finally I just stopped. I watched the light rail whiz by while I held my ticket stub, and then threw my backpack down beside me as I melted into a hard metallic bench.
You ever sit on a bench Nik’s. Like, really just sit on it. I don’t mean slouch on a bench, or lie on a bench, or sit cross-legged on a bench, or even casually sprawl on a bench, I mean sit, rigid, focused, and completely awake on a bench. Ah, shit Nik’s I know you haven’t. It’s a difficult concept to explain anyway, don’t worry your paste eating head over it. Anyway, that night I just sat. I sat and listened to street rats, and lovers, and drunk-frat boys, and tight-legged hipsters, and coffee shop perusers; I even listened to the fucking PA, make its stupid ticket announcements. And I stayed that whole night, just listening. And let me tell you some weird shit goes through your head when you’re sitting silent, listening to a city while your life falls apart. But, do you know what I was really thinking about that whole night Nik’s? Do you know what concept was burning the back of my retinas, and tattooing my brain? Color. Yeah, big fucking epiphany, right? Color. Let me explain.
When you're in a coma, they close your eyes every once in a while so you can sleep, and usually right before that, they shine a bright-as-fuck-light right in your eyes, probably to check for damage or some shit like that, but I always liked to think it was because they thought my eyes were pretty. I have some pretty fucking beautiful eyes. I’m serious, don’t you laugh Nik’s, lets not forget, you at paste. Seriously, next time I see you look at my eyes, they're two huge fucking orbs of smoky gray-green clairvoyance. Deep, I know. Whatever the reason, they shine this bright-as-fuck-light into your eyes, and it burns a bit, and then they close your eyelids down real tight to get’em all watery and shit, and do you know what you see when they close your eyes real tight? Color. You are lost in a deep fucking ocean of color. Your whole world becomes color, your toe is a color, your nose is a color, your Mom is a color, your favorite toy is a color, the last light that got left on at your house is a color, even the black and white reels of Young Frankenstein is a color, the nurses bra is a color, the black T.V. screen is a color, all of it, everything is a color. Do you know what the best part is Nik’s? It only lasts like half-a-second. For just the briefest of moments, your head fucking explodes, and then everything just fades to black, and it is the most heartbreaking thing you’ll ever see. Fuck, Nik’s paste or not, you gotta tell me that you’ve done that at least once. Anyway, every night-when I had my eyes closed for me, and the firework display began- the color I always saw first was purple. Big fucking coincidence right? Wrong again, paste-fuck. I remembered that pencil, that drawing, that class, that face you always made when I looked at you funny. And I remembered all of that again that night at the light-rail station, when I thought about the color-explosions and why I hated my life. And as I sat on that bench, covered in purple, I realized who I was -and what I needed to be. That was the moment I decided to become an artist.