Aborted Raspberry Cottage Cheese

  
So I've given up completely on timeline and order. Fuck it. Too much happens betwen writing these posts by hand and typing them. Whether it is more fucking red dots or life or going on tour with the band ( I did not see a single red dot outside of San Francisco). I also am unsure of the order of things now too. I have posts written on napkins stuck in my desk drawer, random connections (Did you know that the red dots can work as a portal? I recently found myself doing speed at Kristal's house and ended up drag racing down the Great Highway. See...speed and then I was speeding.) scribbled on the back of receipts, memories jotted down in notebooks, and it certainly doesn't help that I don't write dates on anything and that all the drugs and alcohol (I have started drinking even more now that I see these dots) erase time. Thus, I am now here compelled to write the story of the weekend down, type it up, and confuse anyone who is actually reading this. (Thank god no one actually reads it or I'd be more worried.)

For those of you just joining me, let me outline the story so far:

I am going crazy or maybe I am saner than most. All I know is I see red dots. They appear and don't go away. I have to collect them. Have to. It has led to almost being thrown out of a Vietnamese restaurant because I had to (at least try to) pry a Hello Kitty tile off their bathroom wall, wrestling Sandra O. Noshi-Di'nt to the ground at Trannyshack Star Search for that fucking ring, stealing heirloom Christmas ornaments from a good friend, and popping people's zits. I've met Allison Lohman in my dreams, which was as real as walking this earth, and included bringing a red dot back from dreamland. I found out my uncle really did end up in the mental ward for a somewhat similar condition. Only his were yellow squares. I believe these red dots do mean something. I just still don't know what. It's been almost four or five months since I started seeing them. Sometimes I see many in a week. Sometimes I can go weeks without seeing them.

That wraps up the story so far. Hope you're still reading and following along. It is confusing. Hell. I'm living it, and I can't make sense of shit.

Which now brings me to this weekend.

I need to preface this with: I'm not entirely sure this really happened. It seems just too fucked up to have, but I'm sure if fif. I do have the red dots next to me as I write this: a jar of rotting cottage cheese.

I wasn't going to go to Some Thing's Mr. David presents...Project Runtover on Friday night because I've kinda been banned (self imposed mind you) from drag show after that fiasco with Sandra, but a friend was going, and she called me begging me to accompany her. I reluctantly said yes only because I was hopeful for some 'benefits' later on. Luckily, she's aspiring faux queen Dee Vine, so she thought my fucking take down of Team Toxic Tits was funny.

The theme was Alexander McQueen meets maternity chic. Basic set up is Project Runway. Designers have models who perform in an outfit constructed using whatever they're given by hosts VivvyAnne ForeverMore and Tim Gumm plus whatever the contestents themselves have brought. It's a mad dash of horror.

Everything was going fine until the whiskey gingers mixed with the vodka cranberries right before the performers took stage. The room started spinning ('right round like a record baby'), and I made my way to the bathroom and proceeded to throw up. Imagine the bathroom after I left. Now hold that image for a moment. It is important to the story.

Sweating and wobbly, I emerged and felt my way back to the theater. The first performer was up there dressed as an African goddess - tall, dark, dressed in bold black and white print, holding a rod taller than her 7' frame. As I stood there watching her, I started smelling this weird raspberry smell from the drag queen standing next to me. I'd be kind if I said her 'outfit' looked like a kindergartner made it for some in-school craft project for the developmentally delayed. You might be able to call it art, but it certainly wasn't fashionable. Nor was it functional. Small pieces kept falling off as she stood there.

A few more performances and then Team Tork, which later turned out to be Team Toxic Tits, was called to the stage. The queen with the funky sour raspberry smell and wire hanger tiara sauntered to the stage as La Roux's "In for the Kill" started playing. At first, she looked innocent in that train wreck of an outfit. Then, as the chorus started, she revealed a hammer and started pounding the shit out of her pregnant belly. (Justin Bond tweeted: At Project Runtway in SF. Its a maternity theme - who knew coat hangers were so in this season. Lots of designers getting the hook.) When that didn't aboth anything, she moved on to pussy punching herself with a ceramic crucifix on the next chorus. She didn't know a single lyric or have a real garment. In fact, the garment deteriorated as quickly my momentary soberness after having thrown up.

The crucifix was thrown against the concrete wall and splintered everywhere. Nothing seemed to work, so she took off her wire coat hanger tiara and unwound it. It worked. And the next thing that happened sobered me up so quickly: she pulled out a black baby doll covered in this fucking disgusting red chunky mixture from out of a bag between her legs and started licking it. All I saw were red dots. I had to have them. All of them.

Luckily, I had a moment of clarity: it would be a bad idea to repeat to her what I did to Sandra. That moment was enough. The song ended, and I didn't bum rush the stage and tackle her to the ground.

The rest of the show passed in a haze. I stared at the remnants of aborted doll fetus on stage. I had to have every last piece, but I realized I could collect them after the show. I waited patiently counting and breathing deeply so I wouldn't vomit on the person in front of me.

The models were called back to the stage for judges' critiques. Team Toxic Tits placed fifth, and their queen held the baby doll in her arms. It was too much. I had to have it. Immediately. It was covered in red dots. How could it not be mine?

I rushed the stage and struggled to pry it from her arms. She said something about it being rescued from Haiti; I wanted to rescue it from her. She wouldn't care for it nearly as well as I would. Hell. She fucking aborted it! It was rightfull mine. The dots said so.

The next thing I know (let me just say VivvyAnne was very gracious - I wasn't thrown out) I am in the lobby being pinned down by Dee and a big hairy man in town for what I assume to be IBR, the doll is in the garbage can, and Team Toxic Tit's model is standing over me wearing only see through mesh underwear three sizes too small, black fishnets that cut into her thighs, and gray heels. I was screaming, but I don't remember what. It probably had something to do with red dots or saving the baby or just other drunken exclamations of fuck. Dee kept telling me to stop screaming and breathe.

I calmed down at least externally and regained public composure. I apologized to the model for ruiing her moment in the spotlight. She smiled and thanked me for making the evening even more memorable than a baby doll covered in cottage cheese and raspberry jello.

That's when it hit me. These weren't the same kind of red dots as the ones I'd previously seen. Everyone could see thee dots because they were in fact real. My face flushed, and all I wanted to do was go home.

I convinced everyone I was fine, and I asked Dee to grab my jacket. The big burly man went to go find his friends. The model walked to the bathroom (the one I threw up in). I was alone in the lobby sitting next to the garbage can. Just then the distinctive smell of raspberry cottage cheese reached my nose and ignited my need to have the red dots. I quickly pulled the cover of the garbage can and found a plastic bag filled with my treasure. I grabbed it and stuffed it into my underwear. Red gelatinous liquid started running down my legs. I was happy I wore black pants.

Dee drove me home. I kissed her good night hoping for more but aware of the growing mess between my legs, so I thanked her for taking care of me and made my way to my apartment.

I spent the remainder of the night scraping every last piece of cottage cheese ad jello from my thighs into a glass jar that now sits in my fridge rotting (except for right now. It is sitting next to me inspiring me to type). It looks like a living science experiment bubbling and oozing red dots. Remember that image I asked you to keep in your mind? Well this looks ever more disgusting.

The next morning I woke up my head throbbing, the room spinning, everything around me a horrible mess. In my attempt to save all the red dots, I managed to get the concoction all over myself, so red hand prints, foot prints, butt marks, and smears decorate my once clean apartment making it look like some bad 1980's performance artist exploded. I'm leaving all of the mess because I see red dots growing out of the stains. These are the same ones I've been collecting. They are the fibrous kind.

Like I said, I am going mad. By my madness makes sense to me.

Until next time...Happy red dot hunting!

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