When I'm at a reading I think about suicide a lot. No exaggeration. I get this overwhelming feeling to escape or die. Here's a picture of me avoiding a reading in Chicago last year around October.
I felt like I wasn't a worthwhile human being during this picture because the people who allowed me to stay at their apartment freely were really excited about the reading. They organized it and shit. I spent about 5 whole minutes in the art gallery where the event was taking place before my mind started to lose its calm. I then spent an hour and a half outside in the cold night, mostly watching the faces of the people inside through the front windows. I couldn't identify with anyone's facial expression. I don't think my face has ever expressed anything similar, ever. Watching the people through the glass partition was exhausting, not like physically, but emotionally. I lit up a strong, pungent cigar. People kept waving their hands in the air or covering their nose as they walked through my radius of influence. Gena was with me. I felt bad because she's small and has a vagina, meaning she has no natural protection from the chill of a midwest autumn night. I sat down on a small cement step on the sidewalk and felt hopeless about life. Gena left to seek warmth inside. A short man with an excited body language stopped to inspect all the people on the other side of the glass window. He asked, "what's going on in there?" I said, "a reading." The man asked, "who's reading?" I said, "no fucking clue but you should check out a guy named Sam Pink. He's from Chicago." The man made a facial gesture like he was lying about his penis size to a stripper and then said, "yeah, I've heard of him before. He's a really great writer." I just stared back without saying anything. The short man walked off thinking "that hairy dude totally believed me," but I didn't. A larger, more crushing feeling of hopelessness descended on my soul. I texted Sam Pink to tell him this guy said he knew who he was, that he was a 'great writer'. No immediate response though. I spent a few minutes watching the drunk people of Chicago walk in and out of several bars across the street, during this observation period I tried to alleviate all feelings from my psyche, which didn't work. Instead my demeanor became agitated. A black couple stopped to look at the reading and just stood dumbfounded, mouths open. Like, it was a natural but synchronized act. They started walking again. As they passed where I was sitting I said, "fucking white people," in a low, sarcastic tone. The couple began laughing and the laughter became louder as their distance grew. I looked at my feet and stared for a moderate amount of time trying to not think about anything. A trolley filled with drunk people drinking alcoholic beverages approached the street. I felt like I was dreaming. A few seconds later the trolley was gone so I stared at my feet again. An image of unending sadness played through my mindspace. Suddenly, I wanted to run, I didn't care where, just away. Then my phone made a noise. I opened the phone to see a response from a previous text I had sent. It read, "sam pink: nigga, i'm a poet."
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