‘Oh shit.'

I thought, quite loudly to myself— but of course, not loudly enough for anyone to actually hear—however someone might have been able to put together from the startled expression on my face that I honestly was surprised, and had forgotten about the most incriminating thing one could ever go about attempting to bring through airport security, besides a gun or an actual bomb—

‘My suicide knife.'

I honestly had forgotten about it— not about suicide entirely, just that I had an easy-out always with me, nudged somewhere between my sunglssses and haircomb. Not only was I dressed like what some might have considered to be threatening to begin with, and had been pulled aside as usual for the fully thoroughly TSA Pat down…but, the agent examining my bag had produced a—though delightfully fuchsia-purple, with matching safety cover—very carefully sharpened knife, which I had grabbed from the collection of cutlery at the Hostel that gave me the boot, more probably than not, for not being the wide-eyed groupie they wanted and needed to follow them around town to their band's performances, taking pictures and videos for Instagram as proof they were semi-human pro-musicians, and rather taking my time there to develop my own projects, all-the while battling a mentally-ill, anti-America, Al-Jazeera binging also otherwise homeless unhygienic, middle-aged house-rat, who challenged me in completing my workstay duties, hiding cleaning products and of course, curating rumors about my actual identity and intentions in being there—not that I had room to care—still followed by the now notoriously evil abrupt and awful coughing literally everywhere, all the time—signaling that perhaps I was in some lower realm of Hell and should probably just end it all myself, rather than to keep trying at anything—especially music, especially being a DJ. I was used to always having something sharp with me, usually a piece of glass, as my time on the mountain with Avicii and all-out ritualistic skrillex-related torture left me friending for the spilling of my own blood via a broken wine bottle or something similar: not to say I hadn't already been trying furiously to end my existence furiously before whatever happened happened—and now not only didn't I care, I actually had grown a sour taste in my mouth for Skrillex and any of his ass-wipes; Satan wasn't doing anything for me, and I certainly wasn't doing anything for it.

I hadn't made any music since I'd left the hostel, of course pushed into the world and landing on my feet in the only way I could, albeit not under Satan himself, as though he shared some of the same characteristics—I.e. being a complete dumpster of a human being— but perhaps another of The Devil's advocates, as Anandar had called herself, often playing the devil's game and of course, losing—or supposedly winning, as she had returned back to the UK and her riches or whatever she had that I hadn't, though we were all “one”.

The coughs were eating a hole in my stomach in my heart— I inched into the only corner of unoccupied space I could find, though still thoroughly haunted and plagued by the disgusting open-mouthed hacks and mannerless, mouth-breathing consumption of snacks—snacks I had been prodded at by TSA in the shock that I hadn't any; What I did have, however, was cough drops—though stale and probably each containing about a gram of sugar, and yes, the Devil himself prancing around the airport as young-looking women, or children—though it was hard to tell the difference—with the body types of fucking Kayla Lauren, almost no waists at all but somehow all the chests and ass of a college cheerleader, having decided to fly in crop tops and otherwise revealing, tasteless attire.

For some reason, I just didn't want or couldn't listen to music, refusing to put my headphones on over my ears at any point and instead endure the coughing. Maybe it was that after countless nights now nearing months of blaring Deadmau5 in my non-sleep just to avoid to hearing coughing, hacking, or some other torturous disgusting noise coming from what only seemed to be possessed bodies occupied by Satan, which— by the looks of it somehow should have aided in my ability to produce dubstep, but instead just edged me closer to another suicide attempt, had it not been that I found the frequencies of The Red Albums as I had begun to call them to be somewhat healing, and overall soothing. And though I understood all of them now to be hypnotists, I didn't mind as much being hypnotized by deadmau5, as I had been stupid Skrillex or fucking Dillon Francis, not allowing myself to even dream of being attracted to a married man for more than just a glimpse.

As it were, my own deal with the devil precisely, if I had made one more than imaginary or fictional— was that once Sonny was more than likely miserably married to Kayla Lauren or some other Illuminati-approved mannequin, then and only then would I allow myself to fully and truly kill myself—by drinking daily and nightly, just as anyone else did, not just to cope with the toxic, nauseatingly furious injustice and inequality in the world—but also, to channel whatever otherworldly spirit would come of my undoubtedly incoherent, intoxicated, innebriated, otherwise useless and certainly not in any way at this point societal—self, coaxing out any music that may been looming around the soul I carried, or whatever was left of it. I hoped and prayed that her perfect, 108 pounds of flesh would soon hypnotize the master hypnotist himself into bewedding—and even hoped the same for Dillon Fucking Francis—so that at least I could enjoy every last sip of every last drink on every-last-club crawl, knowing I was right, and proving my gut instincts about men—especially celebrities, the media and models—like attracts like, and after a month being a nothing-and-no one back in the good old USA, I didn't even like myself. I wished myself away constantly, though having had too many lifelong dreams of crashing planes, didn't exactly hope for my means to an end to include the 100-something other passengers— even if they were looking at me as if I had just crept out of a nightmare even more unimaginable than I had half-dreamt to deadmau5, just the night before—my excruciating back pain crying from the depths of somewhere between Hell and wherever this was—probably walking distance or a stone's throw, by the looks and sounds of it all—and even if they all were, by my projections, mere reflections of the self cast into a 3-D realm by mere circumstance.

I boarded the packed flight behind a plastic looking woman and her not-yet-plastic offspring, in all designer attire—even she had the same perfect figure I had been trying for desperately, and skipping protein in distress avoiding building more, bulky muscle—skipping the machines during training that were aimed at building the thighs, or even the legs I hated almost as much as the leftover tissue and scarring of my belly from whatever world I was born into— only to half-eat myself to death, and then deflate into an otherwise-healthy looking being, if nakedness were never such a thing. I looked at her smooth figure through the nearly translucent wife-beater she paired with waist-high sweatpants I literally would have died for—rather than to work multiple 8-hour shifts anywhere just to attempt to save for, anyway—but now I would have died for just about any reason; nothing had been fair, or right, or whole in months, with the exception of small pockets of luck here-and-there which all but kept me from killing myself, reminding me there might be something to live for, if I could at least just—

But I didn't know what I needed to do. No dead end job, no temporary housing, no random act of tax-write off charity could seem to do anything any real justice—the entire world was built around having a perfect figure, or somehow becoming delusional enough to accept that obesity was normalized and acceptable because of our own American dietary standards. I myself, with every pound shed, felt more betrayed by my own mere existence and far less human—now sporting an extra small figure, by size of most clothings and brands— and, dressing to look actually bigger than I was, often in layers and/or baggy sweats, to avoid anyone thinking I might otherwise be attractive in a swimsuit, or undressed entirely—which as it turned out— was all anybody cared about anymore; My coming of age had finally dawned, with the realization we were really all just here to eat, fuck, and die—none of which I had the enjoyment of doing, ever, especially being fat—but even now, looking something more like like the tree from Pocahontas than actual Pocahontas. The entire point and purpose was somehow some alteration of Sex, Drugs, and Rock & Roll—Some might more modestly described it as to Eat, Pray, Love—and besides praying, I wasn't doing very much of either of the other things I not just wanted, but seemed to need now.

Upon finishing my training, early in the day rather than late, to ensure that I would at least spend the minimum 3-hours in the gym before having to airport-my-way across America, having learned in Miami that even some of the worlds busiest airports with the longest layover times imaginable had no gymnasiums, I smelled something like a horse—actually, I smelled exactly like a horse, which was somehow more bothersome than the fact that for about the last week or so leading up to this, I had been sweating what smelled to be bullets of pure acetone, my Insomniac hoodie always drenched-to-dripping in a satisfying cascade of bodily fluid—and though the only beverage I had allowed myself for very, very long, besides low-carb protein shakes, was water—I was thoroughly curious and also, abrasively confused at how I seemed to be sweating such noxious gases that I became to myself reminiscent of any given nail shop upon exiting my sauna suit, layered of course with sweatpants and the last hope at any dignity I had, my now-signature Insomniac sweater, which actually once spoke of prominence in its quality, but now was thoroughly worn, and ripping at the sleeves; With any hope, I could refurbish it, adding my own style and flare, as I had to other pieces I had so dearly beloved in the past—but I wasn't sure what the future truly would hold, my ESP always only expanding just-beyond the present on a typical-day-to-day basis, besides the occasional hard-download or vision-quest.

This trademarking day, I smelled like a Horse, which was humerous enough for a moment-or-two, as I had bounced ferociously in the sauna, trying to dislodge a painful disturbance In my lower back, to Salvatore Gannaci's now-years-old-banger of the same title—though it was still new enough to me to mix, or at least a banger enough. After a months-long-absolutely-NO-OWSLA-released hard rule which had plastered nearly half my dance music library onto The Blacklist, it worked its way back into my ears and the ears of others, though none quite as sober—after the call to preform nearly every night of the week cornered me into a deadlock, of course not allowing Skrillex himself off of the Blacklist, but the rest of the mixable music i had collected that just so happened to be from OWSLA, even before I knew what the fuck it was—to avoid playing the same songs in consecutive sets—especially on days I would play twice, party people sometimes migrating from one show to the next. I didn't believe in pre-recorded sets, and prided myself (and set my rate) based upon being the only DJ for miles and miles not playing pre-recorded sets, or, even— other DJ's mixes—which, I didn't even know was a thing you could do and get away with.

(But it is.)

As the woman in front of me prided herself on no longer being diabetic, after a successful pancreatic transplant, tilted my head back and thought to myself, choking back tears, wondering what I'd done to deserve this Hellish subsistence. Coughs was indeed a deadly demon.

‘Maybe that's what I need; A heart transplant.'

But it seemed this ‘coughs' thing was actually more after my soul, than my already barely beating, shallow, broken heart.

‘Fuck this shit.'