South Central (un texte de l'été)

I drove by my old neighborhood today. The hot weather really makes all the fucked up sweaty people in short shorts emerge from their winter holes. I had almost forgotten the neverending display of fat, old and dirty ladies drinking beer on their two by two balcony, next to an obese cat, a baby with snot all over their face and a row of twenty satellite dishes. It smelled of two ingredient ketchup spaghetti, instant coffee and weed; there was garbage being thrown around by the wind, and I had to roll up my window to avoid getting an empty Ramen bag in my face. The people were walking by slowly, their dirty hair dancing weirdly, with sweat spots under their arms, ridiculous amounts of empty beer cans clanging in their plastic bags. There was a million crusty cats, even more crusty pigeons, and a background noise of trashy children being yelled back home by their mom, swearing, dragging their naked feet and dusting off their dirty knees, in no mood to leave the street corner and go eat white bread baloney sandwiches in front of a shitty afternoon tv show while daddy falls asleep on the stinky couch, drunk, with a lit smoke in his mouth.



I got nostalgic. There was something so endearing, so comforting in seeing all those people with such low expectations, such limited options, such little self-respect; I used to feel like a fucking supermodel when I was walking down the street in my pajamas, bra-less, without my makeup on. No matter how gross I felt, there was always the soothing sight of a beat-up crackwhore to make me feel like a million bucks. There's something very tiring in being buried so deep in human despair, seeing it every day, losing yourself in it to the point where it's hard to believe you don't actually belong; but as I drove by today I found myself missing the smells, the sights, the vibe of the place; missing a time where whatever happened, wherever I ended up, it HAD to be better than this. The tiny secret moments where something beautiful would sneak its way into the daily gray; the ease with which the smallest shiny thing would feel magical, almost stolen, clashing with the depressing background. Beauty was so scarce, so rare, that the tiniest glimpse of it made my day. Everything was so ugly, feeling pretty was effortless. I miss needing almost nothing to feel amazed; I had no idea back then how beautiful life was gonna get.

Anyway, I was feeling all cutesy. And then some cheap slut with her one-piece lycra suit riding up her camel toe walked by and spat a big chunk on the sidewalk and also a little in my windshield.

I drove away.