the/ralphamale//experience

The so-called ‘psychotically depressed’ person who tries to kill herself doesn’t do so out of quote ‘hopelessness’ or any abstract conviction that life’s assets and debits do not square. And surely not because death seems suddenly appealing. the person in whom Its invisible agony reaches a certain unendurable level will kill herself the same way a trapped person will eventually jump from the window of a burning high-rise. Make no mistake about people who leap from burning windows. Their terror of falling from a great height is still just as great as it would be or you or me standing speculatively at the same window just checking out the view; i.e. the fear of falling remains constant. the variable here is the other terror, the fire’s flames: when the flames get close enough, falling to death becomes the slightly less terrible of two terrors. It’s not desiring the fall; it’s the terror of the flames. And yet nobody down on the sidewalk, looking up and yelling “Don’t!” and “Hang on!”, can understand the jump. Not really. You’d have to have personally been trapped and felt flames to really understand a terror way beyond falling.

(From David Foster Wallace)

I am an active poster on the suicide prevention group on reddit, and there seems to be a bit of confusion around suicide. From my knowledge from life and classes, I feel this is the best analogy I have read about suicide. Just for future reference: Suicide is an impulsive act. Nobody wants to commit suicide. Everyone wants to be helped.

On my last day off from work, I went with D-Ma to get Pho at Turtle Tower. He had work at 4, so we had an hour to rush there and eat. When we traversed through Eddy Street (one of the more dangerous streets in the Tenderloin), I saw a Black man pull a baseball bat on a convenience shop, turning the whole block hysterical. I have always been fascinated by low socioeconomic life, but witnessing that shook me to the core.

As we passed by the intersection of Eddy and Jones, D-Ma told me that Jones is where all of the crack is exchanged.

“But isn’t there police all around here?” I asked, pointing at the police station on the southwest intersection. Then I learned about a thing called “police corruption” – duh!

I ordered a Pho with sauteed beef in it – on D-Ma’s recommendation. It was good, but I still can’t say I prefer this style over the Southern style I’m familiar with.

Before D-Ma and I split, he explained how to get home, “Head North to O’Farrell, make a right, and take that until you hit Market.”

I noticed it was different from the way we had come from and asked him why.

And in his thick Russian accent, D-Ma explained, “Yes, you could go that way… but it is a little bit more ghetto. People are going to look at you and know they can fuck with you. Take my way, trust me.”

I guess that was his way of saying: Welcome to the family.

I decided taking his advice was the wisest. As I journeyed through O’Farrell, I asked a fellow sidewalker, “Hey, is this area still the Tenderloin? This isn’t so bad – I haven’t seen a crackhead yet.”

The sidewalker looked my way and pointed. My eyes darted to an unkempt man with a large beard, surely lighting his crack pipe.

Figures.

Everything with my afternoon that could have went wrong with my post-work afternoon did.

I needed to make my meals for the next couple of days. Salmon and chicken – like it always is. I didn’t want to wait for the meats to defrost in the microwave, and I certainly didn’t want to wait for it to thaw in the fridge, so I was skimming the packaging to see if there was a quicker method.

Quick thaw, I read: “Prepare the chicken by leaving it under cold running water for 20 minutes”

Cold water? 20 minutes? Do these guys think I’m stupid.

I felt like a Productive Peter, I decided to thaw my meats while taking a shower! I plugged my bathroom sink up with a dishwasher sponge, put my chicken and salmon on a plate and placed it in the sink, and turned on the hot water. Since the dishwasher sponge was semipermeable, water would drip into the drain at about the same rate as the running water, so I was fine.

After I was content with my setup, I undressed myself and placed my dirty clothes next to the sink.

I hopped in the shower, put on some nice body wash, washed my hair with tea mint shampoo, while thinking about how successful my post-work afternoon had been.

After I was finished, I stepped outside of the shower and felt water at my feet.

But wait, I’m not in the shower anymore, how could this be?

I looked in horror as I saw water flowing out of the sink and onto the floor. I saw my pieces of cihcken breast and salmon fillet floating around, just waiting to fall down from the tabletop.

Shit! I have to rescue my meats!

I stuck a hand in there to corral the meat and screamed an expletive; the water was boiling hot.

I turned off the sink, used a clothes pin to fish my meat out of the hellhole, and plopped it onto the plate outside.

After rescuing my meats, I went back in and saw that my clothes were soaked.

Ugh.

I go outside to prepare my usual concoction of meat, garlic, dill or thyme, salt and pepper, and Sriracha, when I felt a strange consistency of my meat.

Because I had soaked it in hot water for too long, it was partially cooked.

Partially cooked? What the hell does that mean? I went on AIM to investigate. I asked Jeff. He didn’t know. I asked Katie. No answer. I asked Howard. He signed off.

Then I went on Google and typed in as many permutations of “Overdefrosted chicken” as possible, and I came to the conclusion that I must have been the only idiot to have ever done this.

I put my chicken in the oven, yanked it 25 degrees higher than I typically cook it, and figured I would leave it in there a bit longer to ensure I wouldn’t die of salmonella.

After I went back in to check the condition of my bathroom, I noticed that my towel had dropped onto the floor – filled with murky water.

F.

I did some tsunami relief in the bathroom and smelt the aroma lingering outside. “Oh damn, this chicken smells sick!”

I ran out to my meal, pulled out my baking sheet, and saw chicken like I never saw chicken before.

I checked out the time, and I had left it in there for an hour and 10 minutes. The normal cooking time is 20 minutes.

Everything that could have went wrong did.

EDIT: I just went to check on my shirt and boxers that I left hanging out the window four hours ago, and they are wetter than before.

Wyatt Roy performing at the Spiked Punchline spring show

Finally, I am taking some initiative in clearing out my queue of photos (since December). I’ve started to be much more selective about what work I’ve released, which is good for this purpose too because it makes me be able to sift through collections much quicker. Enjoy the set!