fame is a dangerous quest

No, thank you. No, thank you for the fifteen minutes of fame. No, thank you for being the klutz moron who wrecked an Andy Warhol painting.

You know how you ask kids what do you want to be when you grow up? Some kids say they want to be famous.

            Morons.

            Idiots.

I was so not that kid.

But let’s say even if I was like that and wanted to be famous, it sure as hell wouldn’t be for something STUPID.

            Who sets out to win the Darwin Award?

Fame is a dangerous quest. Wishing for fame without parameters or a game plan to be an artist like Warhol, or a scientist who eradicates Tuberculosis for good, or an Olympian. Just fame? Here, take it. I don’t want people to know my name.

It’s like being the NIMROD who steps back off the edge of the Grand Canyon while taking a selfie. Or the skydiver who, oops, forgot to put ON the chute. Be careful what you wish for and I most certainly did NOT wish for Fame!

I get these fucking vestibular migraines is all. They are the nastiest shit of all migraines and since ALL migraine is nasty shit—that is saying something!

They’re random but sometimes light gets them going. Fluorescents. Industrial or Big Box Store lighting. Or, let’s get to it, MUSEUM lighting. That’s why I had sunglasses on inside a museum. Not because I’m faking cool. No one with chronic intermittent vertigo thinks they are cool

We’re the NUMBSKULLS that trip off the elevator or turn to look and stumble back a few steps. High? Intoxicated? Hah! You don’t drink when you have this or take drugs. You just try not to fall into an Andy Warhol at the goddamn museum is all. So rack this one up to another fail and fuck off on out of here.

Peas w/Honey Workshop 2.1.26

Prompt: Someone tripping into Andy Warhol’s Triple Elvis Painting

by S.R. Karfelt