- ‘I must have been fucked up when I signed up for this’ by Juliana Scodeler – Dublin, 2018.
Photo/ Set Design/ Bondage/ Post Production/ Words: Juliana Scodeler
Model and inspiration: Kev Smith
Nope. No. No. I am not buying what you are selling. You’ve been trying to sell me your crap since I came out of that pussy. I was pure and I was clean. I thought I was coming into a place of unicorns and sparkly seas. I knew of no drones or double tapping. I did not know there would be dirty air and a plastic ocean.
Silly me. I thought that a least I could grow my own weed.
I didn’t want to wage your wars, with the money you imposed on me. I for sure was not shopping for toddlers being bombed in the face.
I know your type. I have been dealing with your type since I was a little girl. You used to be a wolf in sheep’s skin and only show your colours at night. But you roamed around free, so I thought you were alright. But now everyone is just so used to the dysfunction that you’re selling; it became normal to expect you to come pushing your shit again. On. a. daily. basis. You get a medal for being a cunt, honestly it takes a lot of effort. So at least I’ll give you that. But for the idiots who support you, I can only give them one last chance.
I get a buzz out of trying to guess exactly how small is your dick. I imagine it like Pinky and the brain, only that instead of Pinky is your micro genga and instead of a brain it’s just another stone cold machine being man handled by Ego. Well, the paper sells more paper, the Arms industry makes a few more trillion and everyone is just waiting for this slow burner of a bad K-hole to end. And then we all just have to find a way to agree, or rather try clean up your mess. Some other short-sighted suckers like you, approve and sign the ideas you propose, the ones you created without having a chance to read. We just want to see you go. Well, some of us want to suffer, others like to profit from little kids in sweatshops, or even worse: some take from little kids in sweatshops to give it to a Kardashian. Or donate a few bob so that Kylie can be the richest youngest person.
Everyone is trying to run away from the harsh beating of everyday. We are all refugees, from a system that needs to go. Shut the front door just put them all in a big cage. By the way my point is, that most of us just want peace. And we are the majority. Peace, you know?! Aw yeah, you don’t know. The peace we had before we purchased this really bad batch of psychopaths on Oxys . A long long time ago, when we learned to deal with money (???) and we learned to trade it for big flying bombs; which we heroically learnt to control from the comfort of our own bulletproof HQ.
I had given up. I went to the GP, the psychoanalyst, the astrologer, the spiritual healer, the tarot reader, the Candomblé. I thought I was losing my head. I was so depressed. The anxiety took over me. I blamed myself for the state of every day and everything. You turned the telly against me! Every bit of plastic packaging I had to buy in order to eat. I felt guilt, I felt ugly, I felt dirty on the inside.
I switched to paper straws when blowing coke up my friends arseholes; I recycle everything that I can. I re-use my coffee cups and pick up my dog’s poo. I pay my taxes and try to keep a low profile. Do you even pay your taxes? That’s right I pay your wage and that should mean you work for me.
I try not to break the law too much but when I do, I get caught by your dawgs, by your thugs. The ones oblivious to the fight they’re fighting for you. Do you ever get caught? I am too a victim of the borders you have closed down on me. I try to not eat many animals because I don’t need any more reasons to feel shit. And I don’t need to inflict on others the pain that was caused on me. But you don’t care. You don’t even know what the word ‘charity’ means. We donate even though we can barely make ends meet.
I try to help. I try to listen to peoples burdens. And sometimes they listen to mine. I was prescribed to go to a church because I had lost all my faith. I made it only to the church’s grotto because I couldn’t walk in into my own hypocrisy. See, I don’t like to enable dirty old men playing with little boys. But I lit up some candles. I prayed for my dad, my ancestors and my guardian angels. I asked for a sign of hope. I fucking talked to the candles and I forgot to talk to god. I figured that a part of god was already within me. I also thought, that somehow, god communicates with me when I look into my dog’s eyes and take her for her favourite walks. And then after a good while, I think it must have taken a good 18 months for me. Until I felt free. It was when I couldn’t carry on any further, when the darkness took over my soul, that I found out.
And so, a rush came over me. My arsehole fell out of my ass! When I realised that his time the problem is not me. It’s you. And all the layers of suffering that we all go through.
Because unfortunately for me, and yay for you: you and I are the same, in our shapeless core. We are good. We can be good. We make mistakes but we gotta get our shit together.
I need to learn to say no, and we all need to stop giving power to psychos. That’s it. Come on tribe, from the top of the hill we can see the horizon, it’s burning up and everything is melting so we need to hurry up. Tomorrow might not come at all. Do you trust Kim Feng Shui with a nuclear playground?
Find your shoes everyone. The bad trip is over. Gags out. Un-tie me. Thank fuck!
Psychopaths everywhere. Let’s have a joint and a cup of tea and come up with a plan to give this fucking planet back.