Cheap.

Why don't people listen to the police more often? They know what they're fucking talking about. If you see someone getting beaten to death, just wait for them to show up. They're the ones that know how to handle the situation.

You all can thank whatever god you want for your tits or whatever. Sure, I've been taking an extra long shower today just for that purpose, but I could care fucking less.

I.
Have.
Hair.
Again.

I'm about to celebrate with some fucking speed and a new tattoo. I wish the drugs of this time were the same as when I come from. Fuck. I miss intelligence-enhancers. Filthy Assistants, if you're out there, I'm bored and we know what happens when that comes about.

I've been thinking, which some of you understand can be quite a dangerous thing. As I walked to work this morning there was a scene in one of the alleys. Naturally, I stopped to check things out. One of the many homeless women in this city had died. From where I was allowed to see, it could have been a murder, it could have been a heart attack, it was difficult to say. That part was enough to be painful, however the part that really pissed me the fuck off was the fact that people would stop and look, get some disgusted look on their face as they found out it wasn't one of their posh, uptown, diamond crusted, rose-water pissing acquaintances, and walk off. As if the loss of human life wasn't worth their time. "One down, about a million to go." I've seen more compassion in a used tampon.

The worst part was the fact the cops didn't even seem to care about the kid. Just hauled him off to some state-run foster home, I'm sure. Not that they could be bothered to spare that child one moment of kindness, of letting him mourn. He's just scum from the streets, and we can't be bothered with that. They don't have emotions. They don't feel things the way people with houses and cars do.

Would it have been the same if some dog had been found on the street? Some chihuahua wearing a Coach collar that had been pampered its whole life? Of course it wouldn't be the same. That dog would be front page news.

I hate the fucking media, with their bullshit fucking stories, ignoring what really happens in this city. They can glorify anything, and people gladly bow down to it like the sheep that they are. "Baah Baah, Fox News." "Baah Baah, Anderson Cooper." "Baah fucking Baah, where should we put our attentions next, MSNBC?" If the TV says it's important, it obviously must be. Never mind the fuckloads of people that are dying day in and day out on the street next to you. Never you fucking mind the people that actually need your help. Never mind that what they're feeding you is the furthest fucking thing from The Truth that there is. You'll spend $5 to buy a bracelet to show that you support Armstrong's lost testicle, but when it comes to a person down the street, you can't even be bothered to look at them. You have real things to worry about, like the fact that the cable company accidentally shut off your access to Cinemax.

Fuck that. Take a fucking can from your cupboard and make someone a bowl of soup. It costs you less than a dollar, and you're helping someone live, instead of paying some corporation to make more fucking bracelets.

These are people that are living on the streets, just like you, just like me, and their lives are just as important as some fuckwad in the White House. Don't turn away from them, don't treat them as if you're too good to make eye contact with them. Make a fucking difference in someone's life. This is your city, too.

The one thing that took my breath away about the scene, was the woman that had called in the death. She was genuinely shaken up, and her tears were real. She cared, and all I could do for that was hug her and tell her it would be alright. All I could tell her was that she had done the right thing. All the openness in the world, all the affection for the human race, it was all reflected in her glassy, tear-filled eyes, and for just a brief moment, I fell in love with those eyes. When the cops tore her away from me for questioning, it felt as though my heart was being ripped from my body. One kindred spirit in an ocean of millions.

I doubt she was actually from this city. Probably a tourist.

From Nebraska.

I wonder what she's doing now. I wonder what she's thinking about. I wonder if they've broken her mind yet. Soon enough she'll be just like the rest, and that's enough to jade me even more.

If I knew her name, I'd go and save her, but it's probably too late. It's always too late.

All I can do is tell the story, tell The Truth of this city, though no one listens.

And so it goes.



It occurs to me that some of you may not know who the fuck I am. Far be it from me to have you mistake me for Corncob Assrape the My Little Pony (complete with Donkey Show stage and mini Tequila bottles), or Strap-on - Princess of Femi-Nazi-Fuckery.

My name is Spider Jerusalem.

And, I hate it here.

Let's play a game. I'll list some pick up lines, and you tell me which ones I'm making up, and which ones I've heard used. Bonus points if you can guess which ones were used on me, and what my reactions to them were.

( Follow the cut, fuckers. )

( You want to know about voting. I'm here to tell you about voting. Imagine you're locked in a huge underground night-club filled with sinners, whores, freaks and unnameable things that rape pitbulls for fun. And you ain't allowed out until you all vote on what you're going to do tonight. You like to put your feet up and watch 'Republican Party Reservation'. They like to have sex with normal people using knives, guns, and brand new sexual organs you did not even know existed. So you vote for television, and everyone else, as far as your eye can see, votes to fuck you with switchblades. That's voting. You're welcome. )