Having a seat next to Artaud

There is no more room in this theater.

I should just leave it at that, or write the rest in my own feces, call it art, and retire. Maybe, not even in that order? Why? To create some consistency in this, whatever, that is my life. My life can not be random acts of absurdity with flecks of the usual thrown it. It has to be either one or the other. Completely nonsensical, random, and chaotic or ordered, mundane, and predictable You cannot mix the two. Life isn't salad dressing. You can't just add a bit of Dijon and expect two things that don't mix to exist harmoniously. Life isn't that way no matter how much you shake the shit out of it. Crazy and normal don't come together, um, go together. Shit.

So, I pass the playbill to my old friend. He glances at it, looks at me, and shrugs a "no, this isn't going to work at all" kind of shrug, balls the playbill and tosses it to the sticky theater floor. Then he whips out his dick and begins to jerk it. Two large women quickly escort him off premises. I pretend like I've never seen him before and thank the female security guards for their diligence. They give me two free drink tickets to apologize. I except and order two orange sodas. They don't have orange soda? What kind of theater is this? Cherry coke? No? Mr. Pibb? Okay, Dr. Pepper. Thanks. I forgot how much I like Dr. Pepper. It is so sugary, taste like cavities. Tastes like rotten teeth in a small mountain town. Tastes like an old timey store, a shoppe. A Cracker Barrell gift shop, shoppe, but real, not manufactured.  Olde. Reminds me of hash brown casserole and root beer and rock candy and that occasional breakfast that would come out of nowhere when I was a kid which was not for long, when all us, the whole family, would go out to eat. Like once every six months and that felt like never. So, it felt important. Pancakes and bacon with syrup on it and "what the fuck is fruit?".

Since when is Artist an insult? Fuck you. Really, no, Really FUCK YOU
That happened because you can not call someone a "faggot" anymore. I know that. People used to call me a faggot and now they call me an artist. Actually, no one calls me anything to my face. Why? They must all be artists, fucking artists.

I don't care what people label themselves as. I don't ever think about it, and am only doing so now because someone called me an artist like it was an insult the other day. "Oh yeah, I forgot, you're an artist, blah."

A new one to me.
 I never cared when people called me a faggot. I knew that I was not a homosexual. I did not care if people thought I was a homosexual. I wished I was a homosexual. I still do. I don't enjoy being attracted to women. I don't enjoy being lumped in with straight dudes, they are fucking assholes.  There is nothing good about being straight. Not when you are straight the way I am straight. As in "kinda a fag" but not really gay. I am just a sissy. A pussy. Never considered a "real man".

Fuck all of this. I hate it here.