Blog Entry for This Video:
“Get the fuck up!” “You stupid piece of shit, someone is going to call the police… Antonio!” The day began with a usual trip to a local dispensary in Washington DC. Upon return, my then on and off again girlfriend appeared more agitated as we ascended up the stairwell to her dormitory-styled domicile. The brown paint flaking on her door revealed an impressive baby blue hue, as past arguments between us had expressibly become evident from the chipping of a slamming door and reminiscent echoes of whore and subliminal nigger still remained pensively relevant. I grabbed the filled cigar and gutted the remains. The marijuana’s pungent odor was undeniably pleasing, as I inhaled and directed the consuming miasma out the window into a blustery 38°F day. “Are you high,” she replied. “Yes.” “Good!” My focus moved towards the blinds, as the sun became increasingly piercing through the opening created by Arabella and Schrödinger (cats). Like a crescendo rising, my heart rate increased and increased and increased, until… “Get the fuck up!” I collapsed, my body was seizing to the likeness of an epileptic. Tortured by each stoic berating gesture, I fought with everything to remain conscious, as distally I could hear my neighbors begin to leave their apartments. This became my point of centrality! The waves of panic struck with an intimate bias, such hate irrefutably became poignantly surreal. My mind scrambled, as life began to exude from my body… I’m dying! Dear God… I’m dying. She loomed over me with a condescending smile. My rock, my lover, my friend. Inevitably, the feeling subsided as water and an apple provided sustenance. I felt weak, as I crawled like a child towards her to a bench near an adjacent window. She appeared disappointed gazing at the microwave clock in the kitchen. “How long was it,” I feebly responded. About twenty minutes. In that moment, I feared her as I struggled cognitively to gather… Only to realize, she had no intentions of calling the paramedics that day.
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