She was a dusted off border town woman who dug the dry heat.  She was the kind of girl's girl who would roll up her shirt sleeves to show off a gallery of silky tattoooooooooooooooooooooooooooos:
Linda, Lesley, Patricia para siempre, Patricia forever.

The days passed slow in San Antonio, Venezuela. She worked in a rundown hotel that catered to oversexed salesmen on contraband business trips. The occasional aimless traveler dropped in, out to see the real world and smoke high-grade coke on a Colombian beach just to tell the story.

"One sheet'll do," she thought to herself as she made the bed. She grabbed at the tangled mass on the floor, the pillowcase left by the last customer. Picking up strewn garbage, her eye caught a small cockroach on the wall. Threw a fist at it WHAM - the thing splattered black pus and soft shell to all corners.

Metamorphosis shrugged.

Garbage bag in hand, she pounded the wood on her way back down. Then heard the bell set off by the opening door. She breathed. A heavyset moan into dense air.

Two brown girls. Gringas Americanas no doubt. Sin dudo. Money written all over 'em backpacks. Jobless rich bitch.

"Cuanto cuesta un cuarto doble?" one asked.

"15,000 pesos," she answered.

"Bien. Entonces uno doble, por favor."

These gringas had strange accents. Two chicks, one bed.  Interesting.

The backpackers followed her upstairs to a small room with a low ceiling fan, dropping their load on the floor.

What to do in a dusted off border town on the shoulderblade of Venezuelan Colombia? What to do on a trip that has not yet begun?

What's it to you if I cut up my arm for love and work off the rest of my frustration at my uncle's hotel reception desk where I sit and play body music crazy eights eat junk food bitch fart scratch cut my toenails read bad books dry my clothes smoke (especially non-smokers) sit around half-neked feel sick from junk food shit try to shit pull out my hair or sleep a deep, deep fucking  s  l  e  e  p


San Antonio, Venezuela  9/10/97