Fear & Loathing in Lori’s Apartment

• Lori Palminteri
• Uncategorized
• October 26, 2015

When my parents helped move me into my current home in Astoria, I proudly gave my Ralph Steadman’s ‘Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas’ illustration prime real estate in my studio.  It was a poster my Mom always hated.  When I got it, she scoffed at it and said, “it looks like a demon.”  She made a similar remark when I moved, she said, “what if your landlord sees this?  What will she think?  It looks like a demon!  She’ll think you worship the devil!”  I don’t worship the devil, but I guess worshiping Hunter S. Thompson is close enough anyway.  In a Thompson like binge, I once saw that poster come to life.   I suppose my mom thought that poster was something I’d eventually toss to the side, and I’m not sure why it still bothered her so much, since it wasn’t going to be hung in her house anymore.  Plus, I didn’t give two shits what my landlord thought.  I pay my rent on time and I’m rarely home.  That makes me a a great tenant!  Even if I talk to myself a great deal.  My mother, like so many, fell into the suburban trap of trying to look sane on the outside.

Hunter S. Thompson worshipping aside, fear and loathing are the first two emotions I feel every morning before leaving my apartment.  In the wee hours when the sun creeps through my blinds, I’ve already had a full on fight within the confines of my little head.  Classic social anxiety.  See, my brain turned in on itself.  Once upon time, my conscience lived in harmony.  But now it’s like a bad divorce in there.  Not divorced, because they’re together.  Separate but together.  And you might say, oh yes, you just might think to yourself, “it’s not possible for the mind to divorce itself:”  Then I would say, “yes,” I would say, “for certain, I would have agreed with you back then.”  Because if you can relate, I’m sorry.  And if you can’t, then there’s no use me trying to explain further.  If only I were a better writer.

In literature, there are four types of conflict: Man vs Man, Man vs Society, Man vs Nature, and Man vs Self.  They’re all pretty self explanatory, even if, perhaps, you never payed attention in your high school English class.  Let’s face it, if you’re a 20 something, middle class born, female in America, there’s only one you really struggle with.  Let’s face it, most people aren’t trying to fight me physically (unless you steal my bike, in which case, I will break your face).  Man vs Society, let’s face it, is a losing game (Need proof?  Look at every person running for President. Yikes!).  Man vs Nature, let’s face it, nature will win eventually.  But Man vs. Self?  Yes, who hasn’t felt akin to Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde?

The Reader vs The Writer

Perhaps the reason I may seem off in a social gathering, or distant, or strange in my comings and goings, is because I’m trying to decide who’s advice is better:  The Reader’s or the Writer’s.  Mostly, they both have terrible ideas, and I must compromise, finding middle ground between the two.  The Reader and the Writer are both equal parts me, and they seldom get along.  And I have to hear it all day, and all night. The Reader wakes up, and will not so willingly get ready for work, but does it anyway, knowing it’s sensible, and I need money, and desperately hopes to not make eye contact with anyone, and just be a wallflower.  The Reader’s superpower is the appearance of innocence, which I can assure you, the Reader is not.  The Writer hits the alarm clock several times.  The Writer refuses to get up, complaining about how lack of sleep can seriously damage someone’s mental health, when I can assure you, it’s the Writer who never lets me get to sleep at a normal time.  The Writer’s super power, is curiosity.

The Reader wants to consume stories.  The Reader wants to feel it.  The Writer wants to live the story.  The Writer wants to be it.  Don’t take their titles too literally, however.  The Reader does by far the most writing.  The Writer does the most living.  While despite the Writer’s will to drive to the edge, it’s not the Writer’s desire to end stories.  That’s the Reader’s department. The Writer is an upper.  The Reader is a downer.  They are my favorite drugs.

They can’t exist without the other, otherwise, one would have killed the other by now, and God knows, they’ve tried.  They’ve come to mutually exist.  They need each other.  The Reader needs the Writer to keep the story interesting.  The Writer needs the Reader to keep the ship from sinking.  Is any of this getting to you?  Does it make sense at all?  Even as I write this, I’m not sure it makes any sense to me (it’s likely I wasn’t sober when I wrote this).  Be sure to take notes.  Actually, don’t worry about the note taking.  Just pay close attention.  And don’t trust anything I say.

They’re both self sabotaging lunatics, but in different departments.  The Reader, a recluse, is disciplined, and career driven.  But the Reader allows depression to simper in.  No, no… the Reader invites depression.  Because the Reader is a selfish asshole, that wants to take the beauty of the world and hide it, keeping it all to herself, until it dissipates into a dark disgusting mush, and then the Reader will invite depression over, and they’ll stare at it, until sorrow turns into indifference, and suddenly, the Reader has me looking up ways to erase my identity and move to South America. Remember I said don’t trust the Readers innocence?  Because, the Reader is a prick.  It wants to take and never give back.  The Reader is a sponge, and thus, absorbs all the good and the bad.  The Reader is a romantic, you see, but the world isn’t.  And the Reader has soaked up so much rottenness, it’s damn near impossible not to empathize with the sorrow the Reader struggles with.

The Writer would happily go on a drunken bender, and take as many drugs as humanly possible, and possibly, not as humanly possible.  The Writer is more likely to say fuck you, and more likely to fuck you (both in a sexual sense, and in a screw you over sense).  The Writer wants to jump out of an airplane.  The Writer wants to climb mountains.  The Writer wants fun, but the cost of fun is great danger for the Writer.  The Writer doesn’t want to simply exist.  The Writer wants to live a life worth fighting for, and a story worth telling twice.  The Writer appreciates the beauty and love the Reader craves, but the Writer embraces the monsters.  The Writer thrives in the darkness the Reader fears.

Without the Writer, I would have never tried comedy.  Without the Reader, I would never have the discipline to work hard and keep going with it.

The Reader was the 4.0 college student who knew how to study.  The Writer was the stoner, who was good at making up stories.

The Writer will start a screenplay.  The Reader will finish it.

The Reader is terrified of hurricane swells.  The Writer would rather risk dying than not go at all.

The Writer goes to parties.  The Reader, well, reads.

The Reader dreams of what foreign places are like, and researches heavily.  The Writer books the flight.

The Reader would almost happily allow the parasite of boredom to crawl into my mind, and watch as it eats away, while sores in my soul form and fester, leaving me a hopeless, tired, and disillusioned mess.  The Writer would happily drink my life away, and spend all my money, pushing to the utmost climactic adrenaline experiences, until I cannot physically or mentally endure any longer, and when rock bottom inevitably hits, the Writer would laugh, as if it were the Writer’s intentions all along.

They admire one another, you see.  If they do get along, it’s magic.  When the confidence and impetuosity of the Writer collide with the logic and intellect of the Reader, it’s where I create my best work.  But in the morning, the Reader and the Writer fear and loathe in the apartment for different reasons.  The Reader fears and loathes what will happen when I leave home.  The Writer fears and loathes what will happen if I don’t.