CatchUp

I used to think financial rock bottom was when your bank account violently hits zero, and you wonder how you’ll get through the remainder of the month.

Now I know better: It’s around 600 in red, when you haven’t been able to pay last month’s rent –let alone any other bills- and you’re in massive debt with friends and family. It’s when you have to decide whether you’ll eat today or tomorrow, and the state owes you around €3,000 but it’s not coming today or tomorrow.

Welcome to the suck.
After stalling my paperwork for too long, it is now outside my hands and it seems I’m not the only one who hates bureaucracy. Funny thing is, I did get the right papers but they were copies, and apparently those just won’t do. They prove everything needed to get the ball rolling, but some over-eager pencil licker decided to fuck me over a barrel and reached for the DECLINED stamp.

Once again, my friends prove to be godsent and covered for me so far, providing me with the shrapnel I need for my daily pizza. In the mean time I am saving on every cent to try and make it last. It ain’t easy being dirt poor.

 

Everybody knows you dance like you fuck,
You dance like you fuck,
you dance like you fuck.

-Josh Hommes

Holy shit am I beat. You know it was good when your ears are ringing, your voice is sore and you’re as sober like Mother Theresa after she quit smoking. Or is that just me?

Amusing how, after seeing five years in the business worth of live acts, and studying as a stage technician who should have a relatively refined taste in music, I still find my entertainment in (besides the Silversun Pickups- so sue me) dark bars in the entirely wrong end of town, with chains hanging down from the ceiling and the entire eight pieces of Hellraiser on four widescreens on the wall. And did I mention the electro blasting through the speakers?

If you go through my entire, badly organized (since The Crash) MP3 collection, you might find a few on there of that particular genre because I happen to be a fan of VNV Nation. But other than that, I don’t care much about the whole cybergoth scene.

Except! They happen to build the best parties in town. There’s something about the music that triggers me, not to mention the BDSM atmosphere hanging there. Sitting in a corner chilling out is amusing in itself, watching the door and all the odd costumes walking through. All the clichés are there: There’s the pink bunnies, the cyber-outfitted dreadlocks with plastic tubing, cockteases with strategically placed gaps in their clothing, the sunglasses too cool to dance, and of course the dickweeds like me who don’t bother with the “scene” any more than necessary to be allowed in.

And yet, while at other events you get odd looks for dressing or walking different, they hardly give you a decent look-over here. Which is fine by me. Everybody looks like the Tron: Legacy trailer threw up on them and dances like a freak, and nobody is going to stare or point because you’re different. Put that on top of no-nonsense, scarily aggressive beats and you’ve got my kind of party. Standing among the freaks in a room lit by no more than four Double Derbys and two lasers, under mutilated baby dolls, is where I feel right at home.

What does that say about me, anyway? I chose not to care. What I can tell you is how badly I needed this yearly outlet.

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