Yikes, That Was Close

 I’ll tell you about the last month or so I’ve had and you’ll either think I’m a liar or someone who’s searching for meaning in a world that has none. 

My friend invites me out to a club I wouldn’t even go to with a gun, only because it’s in Manhattan. We go with a promoter (barf) and the door lady vibe checks my outfit, of all things. I’m wearing sneakers that cost more than her salary, I’m sure. But old money doesn’t vibe with the new money NYC expects of me. Note to self: the city is for poseurs. People who would be nobodies everywhere else flock to that wretched city because it makes them feel important. And yet they can’t recognize a thousand dollar pair of sneakers when they see one. I hate a mofo who has no common sense. 

By the skin of my teeth I’m let into the club. Only because I think she knows I’d cause a scene if she doesn’t grant me entry. Plus, I’m with my friend who is the star of the show. I cause a scene anyways, of course, because I’m Lizzy Fucking Wiegers and if they don’t recognize what that means when they let me in then I’ll make a point of showing them who the fuck I am when I’m inside. The vibe is mid, as I expected when someone spilled their drink on me and didn’t apologize. The music is enough to get my heart pumping, but at this point I’m off so much blow I can’t even feel my face so the beating heart could be solely from the drugs. Regardless, I’m ready to keep the night going. I crash some random table by innocently explaining I need to sit down (I don’t, I just want to drink all their liquor for free.) Wild how you can get whatever you want in Manhattan when you’re kinda hot and down to party and seem like you’re in need of help. 

Some girl comes up to me while I’m sitting at the table I didn’t pay for and she has the same idea. “Let’s party,” she says to me while I’m sitting down. I hand her the vial of blow I have and pour her a drink of Goose. At least the people I’m stealing from have some sense of taste. This random and I drink, we get higher, we laugh, we dance, we’re on the hunt for good music. At some point the girl who paid for the table crudely asks me to leave. If there’s anything in this world I can’t stand, it's a narc. Child predators come first, of course, rapists are on the list as well. But in the moment someone trying to kill my own personal party feels like an attack. Obviously I square up and tell her to get bent. Imagine the idiocy of someone who’s drinking someone else’s liquor trying to fight the very person I’m “violating.” All I have to say is that Bushwick girls do it better. 

At this point I’m pissing people off. The girl who’s vibing with me says let’s get out of here so we dip. She insists I can’t drive. According to the DMV, I can drive. I was just respectfully asked not to at one point, but it’s all squared away now. At any rate, this girl I’m with digs my vibe and I’m on the same wave as her. She drags me into a car with her boyfriend. He’s a hardcore Brooklyn dude, from downtown. I can tell faster than I can pour another bump onto my hand. We go to get some food at some deli where I ask for a chopped cheese and they all laugh. Apparently you cannot get that order in Manhattan. Add that to the number of reasons I hate the fucking city. 

We eat a philly cheese steak, which was actually quite delicious, we yap and yap and yap and get some beers and I order more blow from the only dealer I know who would be up at 5am and ready to deliver. The dude comes thru, I get higher, we leave the deli to go watch the sunrise from this girls’ rooftop. 

Strangely enough, she tells me I need to clean up my act. Get on accutane, shave my legs and my arms, get a bikini wax, wear some makeup. It’s cute how so many girls have told me those are the things I need to do to snag a rich dude who will dress me up in Vetements and Van Cleef. I don’t explain to her that I don’t need a rich man, I am the rich man. These things unravel exactly when they need to but that moment on the roof, staring at the statue of liberty, learning how to present as hot, I feel like maybe I was on the verge of reaching the pinnacle of my life, like if I took her advice and the advice of all my hot friends I’d reach the top. This random girl and I would get there together. I’d get there with my best friend who’s told me the same things the random did. I’m trying to listen more to my friends who have good intentions. I lost a few because I never heard them, never took what they said to heart. I go back to my hotel later on and oil my hair, do a face mask, book a wax, book an appointment to get my toes and nails done. Small steps until I reach the end of forever with all my sexy, put together friends.

Anyways, before all that maintenance her boyfriend is selling that pink stuff the kids call tussi. I buy a bit but don’t know how to do it so of course I snort it as if I’m snorting ket. If it wasn’t a party before it’s sure as hell a party now! We go back down to her apartment and listen to music. I put on Mallrat and do some lines. Her boyfriend looks at me the way every dude looks at me. He’s trying to fuck, says he can’t fuck me without his girl being involved. As an experienced unicorn myself, I know it would only lead to a fight between them with me being the villain. Some dogs are just meant to not be awakened, so I say I gotta go now that the sun is fully in the sky. I walk around the financial district (who even lives there lol) looking for a cab until I cave and take a $50 Uber. If you’re reading this, random dude, random girl, random whoever else, you all owe me 50 bucks. 

I head back to my hotel and I’m high as fuck still. I can’t focus on TV, I can’t vibe with music. I just lay there contemplating death, contemplating what the end of time looks like. It looks like me in that hotel room. Very spooky, so best to keep moving to remind myself there’s a lot of time left as long as I have anything to do with it. 

I go back out. I meet some dude who literally chases me down as I’m leaving a party. He somehow wrangles me into his Honda, which isn’t much of a surprise, at least not to me. I have a thing about guys in cars. We drive to Long Island City without any music, which does not match the vision I have of us zipping through the streets laughing and singing and being wild together. I’ve been in a lot of random dudes' cars. The music is a given. This is the first sign I’m in trouble. 

At some strange point we arrive at his apartment. I am a little drunk and super duper coked out. At any rate, we get into his room and I immediately realize I don’t want to be there. I don’t want to be there at all. I wanna go home, I say. He balks, says that he’ll set a timer for two hours and when I wake up I can go home. This irritates me beyond belief. Men who think they can set a timer on my life are truly the scum of the earth. I talk my way out of it by staying calm and saying I’ll text him later, but right now I need to go home and take a shower and get into my pajamas. His yapping about how I’m safer in his bed at this hour (it’s around 6 or 7) only irritates me further. He demands I give him my number and at this point I’m rolling my fucking eyes at the game he’s making me play. This is immensely annoying. He calls me while I’m still in the room with him, texts me all these smiley faces acting all nice and cool. Meanwhile, I’m ordering an Uber without telling him and practically sprint out the door before he has a chance to try and get me to stay one more time. Of course, he follows me outside and watches me punch my address in. Best of luck, babe! I don’t actually live there.

Predators are alive and well, babes. Best to not get into strangers' cars anymore, which is a huge bummer for me. Sometimes I wish I was in the Haight during the 60’s. According to Cookie Mueller you could have a lot of fun with randoms during that time. I should have known Long Island City is not well known for being fun. Oh well. 

I go back home to catch up on some sleep before I leave the next day. Back to Boston. I love a good road trip, don’t get me wrong, but I hate leaving the memories behind. I hate knowing that could be the last time, because that’s what I tell myself every single time I leave NYC. “This is it,” I say. But of course I always go back for more. More blow, more terrifying experiences, more randoms inviting me to a threesome, more nights in a club I have to prove myself in. 

I pick up another few gs and drive back to my apartment. I’m slowly packing up to move, planning on making my way back to Colorado. Of course, the move is going rather chaotically. Some days I wake up and just start throwing shit into boxes with no rhyme or reason. Cups wrapped in bathrobes and towels and tee shirts for cushioning. All the contents of my altar mixed in with resin art I’ve made over the years. All the designer shit I’ve stolen mixed in with thrifted shorts and dresses and some vintage pieces I’ve carefully folded all in the same box with a bunch of shit I don’t really need but care about all the same. Pure madness, but as long as it gets there I can fix whatever gets damaged. Just another boring day in my apartment. 

Somehow I get it all as organized as it could be given the owner of the contents and I hit the road back to NYC for the last time before continuing onto the West Coast. 

I pick up a few gs right as I get there. I’m preparing to see Charli XCX at Madison Square Garden. At this point this really is my last gaffe. My last chance to make more meaningless and beautiful and haunting and tragic memories. I’m ready to make this weekend count. 

I get high right away and head out for some food and drinks before I get too coked out to eat. I have to prepare for the weekend ahead. I get drunk and get more high and drink more and get more high until all I feel is paranoid. I don’t really remember going out, but I know I did and got back to my hotel around 4am. So boring! Another early night. I get on Tinder and start swiping, thinking nothing will come of it except a quick dopamine rush when I match with someone I’ll never talk to. I match with some dude right off the bat and he hits me up. He’s tweaking on Addy. A match made in heaven. Plot twist: He’s in South Jersey. Where even is that lol. I’m more than a little desperate, can’t lie, and more than a little bored. A random early morning adventure sounds like just what I need. We agree to meet at some gross motel he picks out that’s halfway between the two of us. We each drive an hour and he pays. Fine by me. I do a few more lines and bring another g just in case he’s in the mood to party the way I’m going to. 

We meet, we take our clothes off, and then we just lay there for a few hours tweaking out and yapping and watching Sex and the City. He asks me if I’ve ever done PCP. Wait… He says what now? No, I said. Wanna try? He asks. Apparently he really was in the mood to party. Me being the drug fiend I am, I pause for a second and think this might be the day I get on MegSuperStarPrincess’ wave. Something inside me screams NO, so I nonchalantly decline and bring out the other vial of blow so he knows I’m not a narc. We leave the hotel room around 8 or 9 and part ways. We see a woman walking in as we’re walking out and he says she looks even worse off than we do. Where are we even? I ask. No idea, he says. We never speak again.

I head home to crash for a bit before the Charli concert. I gotta bring my A game and look at least somewhat composed and cool and Bushwick chic. I do get some good sleep and wake up and eat an actual meal. I buy more blow. I get to MSG mad early and buy my cute lil’ Sweat Tour hydro flask and the classic black Brat baby tee. Adorable! The concert leaves me covered in goosebumps. When she brings Lorde out I shriek so loud the people next to me have to cover their ears. She brings out Addison Rae and she sings that song about wasting all her innocence in some dude’s backseat. Boys, boys, boys. We like boys in cars, Lady GaGa once sang. Chari and Lorde and Addison Rae all seem to agree. I just about die and go to heaven. 

I meet some girl outside the show somehow, I don’t even remember what got us talking. She ropes me into a photoshoot with her friends where we use the city as props. We pose in front of cop cars, fire trucks and street lights. We all look so baller I’m feeling so up and so psyched about what’s to come. We head to a nearby bar to grab drinks and we make them play Charli’s new album, still on a high from the show we just saw. I do shots of tequila and drink Goose mixed with Sprite, the favorite drink of an old friend of mine. The night is in a great groove and one of the girls I’m with is apparently wanting to get wavy. She pulls out a bottle of Lean and asks if we want to party. LEAN! I have not even thought about that drug since I listened to Houston rappers in high school. I’ve done my time with that cough syrup business. I say, maybe another time and I really mean it. I don’t ever want to leave the party even if it means getting into lean again. 

As much as I love it and as much as I resent it, I gotta get the fuck out of New York City. I head home to do more blow alone in my hotel and crash. I wake up the next day and pick up the last few gs I need before hitting the road. Off I go to Colorado. 

I make a few stops, finally stopping somewhere outside of Cleveland to take a shower in a rest stop and stretch my legs and nap a little in the front seat. Tragedy strikes. I encounter another weirdo. I’m at a truck stop where I can shower and wash my face and I am full of relief for being able to wash the last few days off me. Between boys and concerts and cars and drugs I am ready for a reboot. I oil my hair in the car, put a face mask on (hey friends, I hear you!) and head to the bathrooms to wash it all off. Some dude lingers by the showers, carrying a towel as if he’s going to take a shower. I spot his vibe right away and just know he’s up to no good. I loudly say WHAT’S GOOD in my alarming tone of voice that always comes out when I’m coked the fuck out. He asks if I need help finding my bathroom code. Oh FUCK that, I tell him. He steps back and lingers around the corner in a spot where I could still see him. He’s trying to watch me put in my code for the showers. I give him a look that’s easy to conjure on coke: Step to me. I dare you. He backs off and walks away. I shower in peace but I’m a little rattled and annoyed and I just want to get some sleep. I go back into the regular bathrooms outside of the shower to pee when I'm done cleaning up. This time he comes prepared. He presses me up against one of the bathroom stalls and my instincts kick in and I kick him in the balls and when he keels over I kick him in the stomach and run away with a shriek. Yikes, that was close.

Time for a reroute. I talk to my therapist who insists I come back to Boston. Boston for what? I aggressively ask. I’m not coming back to the East Coast. By a pure violation of trust, she speaks to my mom who insists I come to Texas. Fine, but just for a few days before I continue on. I am so angry with my therapist. She tries all the time to take away my freedom- calling the cops, calling my mom, harassing me when all I’m trying to do is get back home. I fire her on the spot. 

I dissociate for a long stretch of time until I’m in Dallas. I get a bougie hotel for the night and hit up the Texas state fair before continuing on to Fredericksburg, where my mom lives. I stop in Austin and immediately catch good vibes. I visit some vintage stores, some custom tee shirt shops, I see a lot of souped-up trucks, I see young people dressing with some swag the way I do. I’m in love. I make it to my moms place and crash for a long time. I wake up brand new. I’m home. I am here. I have arrived. I’m not leaving. This is where I’m meant to put down roots. So I do. I don't know how to explain it other than Texas, baby. This is where I'm meant to be.

The story goes on, it always does with me. But that’s all I gotta say, for now at least.

Would it kill you fools to put down the electronics and go have some fun of your own?