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  • ZuZu

31 Flavors of Fucked Up

The title is not mine. I believe it is a guy named "Howie", from when I lived in Orlando, Fl in the early nineties. Worked in a Haunted Attraction called, Terror On Church Street. The MOST dysfunctional, functional UN of misfits. An Irish guy, Cuban girl, a guy who was half Puerto Rican and Sicilian, a black guy we bought our weed from (may he rest in peace), a skinhead on the run from Colorado, a surfer guy, a 4'8 lesbian, a lot of LGBT. It was Orlando. It was the San Fransisco of the south. Ereybody was LGBT. Disney would hold unofficial Pride day there. Now, I think, Disney actually recognizes the occasion. But, you know what blew my fucking mind? Tel Aviv host THE LARGEST pride festival. Israel has LGBT? The BIGGEST??? You know how hard Jesus would dig on that, don't you? Mind. Blown. Anyways, I was from Detroit, we had ACTUAL NATIVE FLORIDIANS. We all had some flavor of crazy popping. It would take me innumerable pages to explain the people who worked there before and after me. The shit we did to scare/Terrorize people? Definitely Abusive. I mean, physical threats, verbal harassment, psychological torture. NO children, pregnant women, weak hearts and epileptics were allowed in- cuz our job was to fucking TERRORIZE them. I made someone shit themselves. Piss themselves, pass out, cry, bail out of the attraction, you name it, in the name of Terror? We motherfucking stooped to conquer. No shame. We earned our money and our specialities. I was attending one of many colleges, and I took Intro to Anthropology. I wrote about Terror. I got a B motherfucking Plus, because the elitist bitch said, and I quote: "I don't believe this actually happened." I wanted to say, just wait, bitch. Just wait till you go out to your car after work. You'll believe. After I have to call 999 so you don't die of a heart attack. Grrrrrr. That pissed me off. Reminds me of a side bar story though...


I was living in the same town- Jesus. A lot happened in that town, come to think of it. I even went to jail there- don't get me wrong. It was the best educational experience I had, plus? It saved my damned life and got me away from a guy who would've most definitely killed me. For a fact.


But, as usual, I digress. So, I started drinking at age 14 in 1989. I think I've made that abundantly clear. Also, I think I've made it clear why I drank: Im genetically inclined to be an alcoholic, and it shut up the voices in my head. It was always SO FUCKING LOUD!!! Drinking was a fucking coping mechanism. Not a good one, not one I would recommend to the Book Club, but, for me, it worked. Anyways, It was the fall of 1999. I was living in my apartment, I had just discovered two years previous that I had "spirit guides" and spiritual gifts-on top of the noise that was already in my head. Well, after 22 years of failed relationships, careers, endeavors, etc. I decided to inhale a bunch of pills and be done.


So, I see the light. It's so hard to explain. It was like, every atom of my being/soul was unconditionally loved, accepted, protected, just..I was flawless. I was perfect. I was whole. I was finally home. I heard cardinals singing. Cardinals mate for life and they mean true love. My dumb ego pops in, and thinks; if it is this amazing up here in this...I can't wait to see what the cardinals look like. So, I say, "I'm going down for a minute to see what the cardinals look like, and then I'll be back." Dumb ass, alcoholic ego. "Okay God, you brought me here, gave me a get out of jail free card, and I still try to control and manipulate the situation." Don't think for ONE second I don't kick myself when I remember doing that. But, if God can make a bumblebee fly-which is aerodynamically impossible-I think he an handle my life...when I choose to let him handle it. Such a drunk. Anyways. I woke the fuck up. Yup! God: 1. ZuZu: 0. Which is the way it's supposed to be, but, I growled when I woke up. Even wrote a fucking note, and this is the thanks I get? FUCK. That was my first serious suicide attempt. I should've learned then. Fucking Bumblebees.


So, I figure I better get myself to the hospital. Which was a 20 minute drive away. Yeah. Did I call the ambulance? Fuck no. Got in my car, 31 flavors of fucked up, my high heeled boots not even zipped up. Jesus. So, I drive to the ER. This is a MASSIVE, internationally recognized hospital. Still. To this day. It's a big fucking deal. Anyways, the security guard waves me forward, so I pull up. He looks at me behind the wheel, and I could SEE his eyes bug out. I start to get out of the car, he's waving me to sit back down, I pass right the fuck out.


Next thing I realize, I'm being corralled into a hospital bed in the ER. The best part? It was by a bunch of freshmen volunteers who wanted to grow up to be doctors. In the back of my mind, because I'm STILL fucking pissed I woke up, I'm like, "This is gonna be FUN!!!" So, as I'm turning my feet around to the foot-see what I did there- of the bed, this asshole ER ego fueled doc saunters up to my bed, puts his hands on his hips and says

"Are we still thinking of Suicide?" "Well, since you've got the Potassium all locked up, I guess I'm shit out of luck"

"Strap her down!!!!"

Those poor little, white priveleged, boogey kids. Their mouths drop, and they stare at each other in horror. So, before I pass back out, they're asking each other: Do you know where the restraints are?"

I wake back up, and these little freshmen boys-I forgot to mention they were like,18 year old boys. This was before women were like, Doctor? No problem, hold my kid-that I delivered au natural. So, hahahaha, these poor lil guys, hahah, I STILL laugh about this whole situation. They're mystified as to how these restraints work. I'm like, "Guys? You ever do bondage? Yeah, didn't think so; pay attention." I taught them how to use restraints to three point restrain me. I told them, "You always want to leave the non dominant hand untied, just in case you give your partner a heart attack or a fire, ok?" Too fucking funny.


So, I pass out again. Then they bring me this grey and black shake in a white, styrofoam cup, with a straw.

"Drink this"

"What the fuck is this?"

"You needed to drink it so it soaks up the pills in your stomach." "Jesus Christ!"

Imagine chewing on fire charcoal and adding charcoal dust with like, a vanilla shake.

I was drinking liquid charcoal. To soak up the benzos. They don't do this anymore. They have Narcan for heroin and opiate OD's, but I don't know what the fuck they use for Benzo OD. So, I pass out again. Come to. I hear they're airlifting someone who was in a motorcycle accident. Shit. Passed back out.


So, the asshole ER Doc, calls up to the psych ward, cuz apparently I'm clear medically to go upstairs. To the top floor of the hospital. Because if the hospital catches fire, by the time they put it out, the crazy people will be dead, and who cares about them anyway? They don't vote. Put your middle finger in the air!! Hollah!!


So, I get out of the ER, and NOW they are walking me to the psych ER. I'm like, you gotta be shitting me, right? I'm like,

"Can I have a Coke and a cigarette? That's all I want."

"No."

"Why? I just want a Coke and a cigarette? That's it. Please?"

They put me in this tiled room, with some fucked up, fake ass, leather, Frank Lloyd Wright knock off furniture. I'm like: Fuuuuuuuuuuck. There's a thick ass metal door. And a little, One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest, square ass window. I'm like, "Jesus fucking christ. Are you fucking kidding me? All I fucking wanted was a coke and a smoke!" Sumbitches.

It felt like I was in there for HOURS. I drank Charcoal, remember? I'm parched. Dry as the mothertfucking Sahara. And I get thrown in a tile box with bad furniture and a lock down window. Alright, you motherfuckers. Game motherfucking on.


See, now, I know I'm not going to win a fucking Pulitzer or anything for this shit, but what I did next, remember Terror On Church Street? That fucking see you next Tuesday of an Anthro prof? Pay back time. First, I sit in the left corner of the room, in the upper corner, using my stage and dance practice to be as small as I could and be out of sight lines. If you can see them, they can see you. So, this graduate asshole-he had curly hair, average build, hairy, scruffy, blue polo shirt that was so tight, he had to wear a white t shirt underneath it, asshole. But, I could see fuckwit's face look in, cuz there was a shadow. Remember that. There's going to be a quiz later. So, I'm bored, I'm in and out of consciousness, and when I would regain consciousness, I'd reorganize the furniture, then go back to my corner. For example, my first design was like a dentist office. But it a kind of crazy, Art Deco circle. The next design, I put the furniture on top of each other. Like Jenga, but before Jenga was a thing. Then, I took all the furniture and shoved it in my little left hovel. He would peer in until he spotted me, made a visual, then leave. I knew this because there would be the shadow, right? I let him do two more checks. By this time, I'm bored, thirsty, conscious, have to pee, eat, and I'm tired of being held motherfucking hostage. So...I crouch under the window, eagle eyeing the window, waiting for futkwit to peer through. I see his shadow coming forward. I see him look in the window, panic, look back and forth- drink your drink. Swallow. My fucking ass Pops up in front of the window, and scream, "GAHHHH!!!!" Mother Monster hands and all. Wait. Wait for it- Are you ready? Fuckwit punched the window. I was out in 5 minutes. Y'all Amateurs!!!!!! As soon as that sumbitch punched the window...dude...I have never filed a Recipient Right's violation, because nothing ever happens. But, THAT sumbitch had absolutely NO BUSINESS working with people with brain disorders. It was like me thinking I should be a Social Worker. Stupid fucking idea.


God damned Bumblebees.


Real Talk:

I've got so much shit going on. My dad has had cancer since August 17(?) of 2017. He'll be 84 the 28th. He's been hospitalized 3 times since December. He actually let me call 911. My father. Who grew up on a new farm every year, who would get up at four to milk the cows, slop the pigs, feed the chickens, get cleaned up, eat breakfast, go to school, and then do it all over again at the end of the day. And every day after that. Every year, my father and his three siblings would be the new kids in school. Go ahead and Attachment Theory yourselves out. Then, my father was stationed in Milwaukee during the Korean War to shoot down missiles. Then, he put himself through undergraduate and graduate, then take an Outward Bound teacher exchange program where he goes to motherfucking KENYA, and teaches at Mango International Boys School. He taught Jomo Kenyatta's kid. We named my first cat Jomo. He met my mom, like, three months or so before he left for Kenya? Climbed Mt. Kilimanjaro, taunted Rhinos, taught me that Leopards do not growl, they cough. Cover your head and put your gun by your ear, cuz leopards live in trees and they will hijack your ass. Smuggled an organ across state lines, had Masai Warriors in his 1963 VW Bug. KGX 957. That was the bug's license plate. I have it tattooed on my arm. But, my father basically bought a VW beetle (I had a Super Beetle. No Hero worship there. Our first loves are our opposite sex parent. It's psychological law.) to tool around the goddamned Kenyan jungle on two track, deep rutted, muddy roads. He thought he was driving through a bunch of trees, because it was the rainy season. No. It was a fucking herd of elephants.


Comes back in 1965. He and my mother have been writing each other since he left. I'll venture into that water another time. My mom declares? Insists? no. Knowing my mom it was most definitely a threat with a veiled promise.

"You either marry me or I'm going to go to New York to become a dancer"

"Ok".

I asked him why? He said if I went back, I'd probably be a renegade in the Rwandan resistance and die.


Okur.


Anyways, so the coolest man, friend and dad I have ever met. Seriously. Only his brother comes just as close, but different, has a blood clot in his lung (second visit), a blood clot in his leg, so they need to install a screen (3rd visit), and they found a ew lump on his neck. So, yeah. I'm losing my fucking guru. My wise sage. My Baba. It's fucking killing me. Why do people who suck live so long, and..well, I guess only the good die young. Even though he'll be 84, he's, no question, a good man. My mom's going to fall apart. They've been married 57 years last July. Knew each other through letters for 2-3 years before, waited 8 years till they had me, so they could, "decide whether they like each other or not." Good call, I thought. Most people are signed, sealed and delivered in a year. Slow yer roll. For every good person, there's about five stalker/creeps/sociopaths and an occasional psychopath in there. Trust me. I know. I've dated them.


Anyways, life is super stressful right now-on ALL fronts. My biopsy its tomorrow at 8 am. But, among the epiphanies I had, there was one that really rocked my world. I realized, this is the first time I've lived alone, in all 49 years. I've lived with my family, roommates, boyfriends, friends, kind of communes, on people's couches, but I've never lived ALL BY MYSELF. I realized: After 8 years, I live with just myself, my cats, my fashion and my plants. I can leave my pizza boxes out. I can leave my underwear in their hallway. I don't have to put the toilet paper back on the roll as soon as it's done? I can walk around without pants? I can hang my bra on my coat rack. And no one can say shit. NO one. All I have to worry about are my cats and my plants and me. If I'm cool with my house, it's okay. If I'm not cool, I can make it cool. I'm actually rearranging my house. I'm taking my desk, printer, etc, and put it into the guest room. I'm turning that into The Studio. I'm finally, yes, Grandma Mary, I'm finally beginning to write THE book. I'm still in the research phases and waiting on Dave's record/file/ War and Peace tome of Criminal Justice Insanity.

I'm turning the front place into Marrakech. Seriously, it's going to be sheers, pillows, poufs, altar, all of my PTSD/DID recovery books, drawing. It's my little creative cove.



Anyway. I didn't really write anything groundbreaking. I did. Because some of you know me as the person who wouldn't think twice about acting up in a psych ward, and my sense of humor- my real, old sense of humor is coming back. I wanted you to see that. Everything's so heavy now, I think I needed to just laugh about my asshole behavior. My friend calls me, "asshole" all the time. That's right. I earned that shit. Well, this was called 31 Flavors, and I delivered. Don't be a fuckwit.

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