『{Whatever’s Wrong.}』のカバーアート

{Whatever’s Wrong.}

{Whatever’s Wrong.}

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 I'm no complete Christian, but the bizarre act of hacking and spewing and gasping by whoever was next door while I was reading the Bible was telling of its claims. “that girl really fucked you over.” I wasn't sure what exactly the voice was besides the voice of God itself, or maybe even the same voice who had warned me who'd win the election and was right, and so eternally and internally always kind of a voice I trusted, and besides that, I was sure it see right. The evil girl next door had really fucked me over— not just in one way, but several, and finally culminating in no longer even having an apartment. She had fucked me out of an apartment! The more I complained about her door slamming, incessant obsessive stalking, and the way she played mind games whenever she could find me about in the small space between our two doors, it was nothing short of her method of targeted warfare— to have given me a plant was for her to be able to say she was trying to be my friend, but everything else she did around that was evil, and the more I complained about the door slamming, the stalking my door and setting up loud conversations just outside of it in order to irk me, slamming the door each time I took a bath or a shower, or used the toilet for several months, she had indeed fucked me over, and run me over, and I was lost— I didn't understand that people could just be like that and I didn't want to just attribute it to race, but she was a white girl, and all the red flags and flares indicated that the game she was playing was race war— her goal to return me to the streets or the shelter where she could presume her dominance in the structure of social culture because it made her so uncomfortable that we had the same thing. She had never been inside of my apartment, but she was aching the entire time to get in, and the entire overall factor was, that I just never felt safe around her, despite her broad gestures and gifs and supposed openness— her words and her presence spoke an entire hidden language, telltale signs of betrayal, and maliciousness, and as much as I wanted them all in my head, they were not. Now the new property manager seemed to be taking her side, and her actions seemed more egregious— knowing I had come here from the shelter meant that there were entire parties of people enraged that the city was helping people to come out of homelessness and to bridge the gap between homelessness and inequality, but it was easy to see over the course of the gentrification process that white people were mad at this equality, and acting out, and even acting very outrageous, and the problem with me personally was that I wasn't even from New York, or out of the system in a certain way, but the people who were treating me with such degradation and disrespect couldn't see that. They could only see “black” and “formerly homeless”. What's worse, is they couldn't see the many books I'd written or art I'd made, and this contributed to their overall devaluation in my kind— or worse, they could, like the girl next door, who had read an excerpt of my writing under the guise that she was a helpful person, and had become enraged with dissolution and jealousy; it was as if she couldn't understand that not only might I be equal to her, but even intellectually superior in a certain way, or at the very least artistically superior, and began to act in such a destructive way that paired with the noise form the morortcycles and incessant harassment from outside the apartment which bled into all spaces of the apartment throughout the day, combined with her incessant door slamming and disruption to anything I did while I was at “home”, which never felt like home because of these things exactly, it made me seem crazy and ungrateful any time I complained to the property management, and that seemed to be the game. I even surmised that she was connected to the noise from outside and the particular strangeness that someone seemed to be listening to me inside the apartment as well, as she had somehow seemed to know things I was talking about on my unpublished podcast episodes— things she could not have possibly heard from next door, which meant there was some sort of audio recording on the premises she had access too. It became a cat and mouse game, because she knew where I was in my apartment and began to attack my psyche anytime I was in the apartment, and especially when I attempted to create. Now, facing almost certain death and removal from the only stability I'd ever known, it was partially due to this incessant and rampant behavior that I was almost always at a loss. I had once again been bullied out of something I desperately needed by a white girl who felt justified and untouchable— only this time, it was more serious. I wasn't just in trouble at school, or some kind of job— she had manipulated things in such a way that this time I was out of a place to live— under the guise that she ...

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