Drained

• Lori Palminteri
• Uncategorized
• July 17, 2017

Sand plus long hair clogs a drain like a motherfucker.  And every so often, you can find me, with a makeshift snake from a wire hanger I was saving for a home abortion (a joke, relax), hunched over my tub, pulling black globs of hair and just disgusting shit out of my tub drain.  Gagging, I yell to little Edgar (little Edgar is a small Edgar Allan Poe statue I sometimes talk to in my apartment, is that weird? It is.).

I think of all the times my dad had to do this.  After all, he had a wife, two daughters, and a son, all with long blond hair.  Plus, in the summertime, my brother especially, was guilty of washing off tons of sand in the shower.  I recall him cursing us all when remedying the tub in our childhood home.

Calling my landlord is an option, of course.  She is a little old lady, but her son in law or grandson deals with such problems.  Alas, my rent is rather low, and I’d like to keep it that way, so if there’s a problem I can fix, I will.  My dad has always been super handy when fixing anything around the house, and how I wish I paid more attention and learned those skills.  But I’ll substitute real life experience with YouTube tutorials.  Snaking the tub drain isn’t hard.  It’s gross.  But after all, it is my hair.  I swift my little studio apartment constantly, and it amazes me how much hair is falling out of my head.  “Surely, I’m going bald,” I’ll lament to little Edgar.  At what point does living alone become unhealthy?  Don’t answer that.  One of my (semi-irrational) fears is going bald. This is because when I was in high school, I would get eczema on the back of my neck from stress, and I would pull out the hair in one spot at the back of my head during some classes.  In a way, that’s kind of sad, but I think back on it and laugh.  For fucks sake, what was I so stressed about?  I can’t even remember.  Funny how fear became my spring board for everything in my life to come.

So when my tub is slow to drain, it’s something I take care of.  But all year, it’s been the kitchen sink that’s been draining slower and slower.  I tried every home remedy; boiling water, vinegar, baking soda, etc.  This temporarily alleviates it, but it’s a growing problem I’ve been putting off.  I can’t snake the kitchen sink, and I looked up directions to take apart the pipes below, but since I’ve no experience doing such things (and it’s not my house, and it’s a very old house), I contact my landlord instead who sends her grandson.  He says he’ll drano it first, then snake it.  I say drano will not work.  It barely drains at all now, and I’ve had to use a plunger the last couple times I used it.  The lack of use of a sink giving me excuse not to cook, and sometimes not to eat anything but granola.

He comes to fix the sink and is unable, and texts me, “that sink is all kinds of messed up.”  I know it. This, however, is not due to long hair or sand.  This, I’m sure, is years of build up before I even showed up.  A plumber will have to come.

Coming home late, I’m tired and foggy.  I forget the sink is fucked up and I run the water, only to have it remain stagnant in the sink.  “Fuck,” I say to little Edgar.  He doesn’t answer.  He never answers, “nevermore.”  The sink won’t drain. Me, personally, am totally drained.

A friend and fellow artist called me to ask about my general writing process with this blog.  It always makes me feel good when talented people are fans of my writing.  Especially on here, which is really nothing more than a way for me to practice my art and vent.  “Just write what you want to write about, whatever is on your mind, and stick to a schedule,” was my great advice.  I can never believe it when someone finds anything I do inspiring.  More often than not, I’m still the girl in the back of the classroom who wants to pull her own hair out.

It’s my passion, dream, and life’s goal to write something great, not good.  A novel, a screenplay, an hour special.  This blog… well, this is therapy.  But what happens when too much is built up in my life that I can’t write about (or won’t). What happens when there’s no outlet for the real stressful life events.  What happens when I can’t find the words to put on the page.  A black substance forms and the smog will not drain.  It lingers, and the water rises, slowly.  An incoming tide, and sure enough, the head becomes, “all kinds of messed up.”