shards of ice and crystal at the tina turner concert.

so my boy at work today walked up and was like “sarah, you like blueberry?” Which, yes, obviously, so then he handed me a blue can of Red Bull, which was a pretty sweet left turn. “I don’t like the blue ones,” he said. “I usually just grab them from the fridge without looking.”

“Awesome,” I said. “Thank you.” I waited til the end of the day to drink it, walking out into the parking lot, all woo hoo, look who’s on her own time sway and swagger, just slamming it. Just an open throat pour, closed eyes, let my feet fall where they may. Because after work, I mean, you gotta work off some steam, right? You gotta sweat it out a little! Time to fucking work out, you know? It’s time to hit the fuckin’ pavement at a dead sprint, bitchit’s time to shove a little word called MOTIVATION up your ass and set it on fire. GET YOU JUMPING. GET MOVING MOTHER FUCKER.

Anyway. Went home, had an okay workout, felt like shit! Not usual. Usually I feel all seratonin’d up. Real floaty, foot loose, fancy-free. This felt like dark memories of methy comedowns, fevered shivers… night terrors—the Full Vietnam.

So there was like, 35 grams of sugar in that can, right? And I don’t typically drink my sugars. I’m team Diet Shasta. Coke Zero. Just not sugar-drink habitual, unless you count rum, which you should, but don’t. And this was it, I knew it: the Crash…

So. Following this workout I had a pleasant dinner with friends, at which I was absurdly wired, wired to the point of methy. That’s two uses of the word “methy” tonight, describing me, and things I do. What can I say? I dunno. So sue me! It’s on my mind! And in my body. I’m so full of meth right now. My lungs, my veins, the chewed up pieces in my teeth—that’s the only explanation. That’s the only thing that must’ve happened. Otherwise you’re telling me that my bodily defenses and metabolism are chickenshit enough at this point to get their fucking asses kicked willy-nilly all to shit by no more than the meager force of a single can of blue fruity non-diet regular-ass Red Bull.

I used to fucking shoot rocket fuel

youtube rabbit hole: bar fights

catechism of the willing

I’m beginning to notice—as a goddam, like I said, days ago, adult—(not that, in this case, I mean, it matters)— that the way I seem to make friends, (and this is lifetime-up-to-now-inclusive), typically boils down to one weird thing. One weird thing—the subtle, secret contract that is made over the course of a singular, particular, not necessarily especially memorable moment—one kinda-sorta surface-level microexpression subtle-type communication over the course of a regular drab real-life interaction that essentially, if I gotta explain it, is just like—

Me: Yo. You’re weird, right? We’ve been talking about super-weird shit for a second, and combined with the way your face looks and your hands move etc I’m kinda thinking that you’re weird

They: Why’s that

Me: Well, we’ve been talkin’ about some weird shit for a minute here and that’s kinda my forte personally—a lot of people really don’t seem to be on my wavelength—and IDK you seem weirdly enthusiastic and responsive so I guess we’re on the level?

Them: Yeah man, we’re on the level—anyway

youtube rabbit hole: concerts as filmed from the stage

 

Same Name Squad

Quick, go to sarahszabo.com.

OK. It’s not a mirror, and it’s not me—but isn’t that fascinating? Hell, my name’s Sarah Szabo. Hell, I’m a freelance writer, and a journalist too. Hell. Is that me?

Well. Nuh-uh. That’s another Sarah Szabo. Let’s look at some more of them.

This Sarah Szabo, for instance—she’s got some crazy cool art posted up in the realm of particle physics for your perusal here, among other dope things. I quite like that. These are the kinds of paintings you put in your opium den, at odd angles.

The aforementioned Sarah Szabo is a writer—writes articles, writes essays, free lancing, as you do. (I do.) Oh, 2010? Hell—we’re contemporary. Hell, my byline is Sarah Szabo, too.

The other night I was turnt up. More than a little hammered, by the time the sun had set on your world I had just reached the Zen Nexus, and I gave my body over to the fluvial forces that surrounded me there in greeting, its currents flowing dreamlike across me in the waters of the Chill.

The Chill was set to maximum. Lil Wayne’s “No Type” interp rang out from somewhere, sounding sourceless in the warm dark. Stripped-down beat somehow morose with him at the helm, descending notes and his voice echoing down with great humanity throughout the tangled network of unexplored tunnels I now existed in. He may have actually been there. “I ain’t got no type… but when I met codeine, there was love at first Sprite…”

Anyway. So it was right there, in the Chill Zone, that it all hit me. It had been brewing for a while, but in the chill zone—the Zen Nexus—time speeds up.

The idea is called Same Name Squad.

Only in the age of social media could such an ambitious project be so trivial to actually conduct. For now, in these times, we may seek with ease, our name twins. We may witness their works and days, the qualities of their character. And we can reach out to them with the stroke of a button, bearing an offer of collusion. We can, with powers combined, become one. This, for the world, is a dazzling new era.

With our names and portfolios combined, the Sarah Szabo Same Name Squad will be an artistic golem of a titan’s stature, wise beyond her years from the benefit of tens, dozens, hundreds of minds on-deck in tandem—all these lives,  the things they saw.

As for the Sarah Szabos, at least the ones before us here—myself excluded—they all seem so artistic. Hell, I kinda think they’d be down for this. But if one expands the search around the world, with great focus, and a wide net—the possibilities are myriad. We would have specialists in every field, and therefore, as one united, be a specialist in every field. Even the negative fields—the vice ones. I live near a Sarah Szabo who’s had some warrants out for check fraud, and who’s to say we don’t need her in the crew? Who’s to say we don’t need a wild card? I’m sure one of these Sarah Szabos out here is a lawyer, she probably just doesn’t have a website, because she’s busy. This one got a mean textin’ game, it seems, so we’re gonna need her. Social networking. This one paints mad dark shit, which would help with our aesthetics—we’re a brand to be feared—and I think some of these bitches even model. Some of ’em might even fight.

We can be the total package, y’all. One name—one identity. Same Name Squad.

The end goal? The unity? A single byline—a perfect person. A golem of the heart and soul. “Who are we? We are Sarah Szabo,” and all that.

Individually, our lives would be the same, of course. This isn’t weird. Hell, we don’t even have to meet, though we should. On a personal level, it’s whatever. But professionally? Professionally we are one. Professionally, we got squad power. One name, and we run the game.

Squad.

So. Anyway, think about it. Think about your squad. Who ya got? Who ya gonna call? I need to send some emails out.

youtube rabbit hole: fools getting stranded by cruise ships

she was born in like 1970

What happened was that I actually felt something click inside my head, the other day. A switch was pulled, a nerve broke. A faint crack—and it occurred to me—well—here it is—I’m an adult.

Having long been an enthusiastic believer in the theory of emerging adulthood, and not solely for its justifying pretty much my whole lifestyle, this moment didn’t really come as a surprise. Also, duh. But 25’s the moment, I can say was my experience, now. 25’s the click.

I wish I could remember what it was that did it, but I don’t think it was anything more than a drive to work—the drudge—the deja vu—the drudge.

This is so fucking narcissistic. The point I came here to make was that I got paid yesterday. So, first thing in the morning, I checked my bank account, and scratched out a bare basic budget on receipt paper that consisted of allowances for essentially just “electricity (-$90)”, “entertainment (-$40)”, “vice (-$120~)” and “groceries? (-$20)”. I’m already here at Saturday, scant hours later, and the budget’s off by $750 what it should be. And that’s at the least, by my accounting, which is not likely to be accurate at all.

Last night, over the phone, my little sister, ten years junior, said that she regarded me as belonging, by her perception, to the same age group as our aunt Gail, who is forty-five years old, and was born in a world before hip-hop.

Whatever.

*kicks a basketball up into the net, middle fingers up, crowd goes ooo*

It’s Saturday

I woke up this morning with the sun tied in a sheet made of yesterday’s shame. I slammed a Diet Coke, reviving, and removed the chicken from the slow cooker. Wrapped in the sheet, with hair wild, I’d completely forgotten about the chicken, but the beauty of slow cookers is, hey, you can do that. You should ask the boys at fire station 5 about the night I threw potatoes in the oven.

I love slow cookers. The machine is my bitch. I’m going to bed now. But when I wake up, this better be done. This better be good to goThe machine takes care of me. Its creations keep me strong.

I live downtown in a third-floor walkup with a roommate. I work north of downtown, in a museum.

Lunch today is a chicken sandwich.

~If you don’t know, now you know, oh!~

Youtube Rabbit Hole: ATV chases