the Hippo Brigade

That Time I Saw a Dead Horse

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August 30, 2011

Have I ever told you about my run-in with a dead horse?

It happened around the same time that I thought finishing a book without any pictures in it meant that I was a genius.

And it was about the time where boys bought me drinks because they wanted something else, but I thought it was because they were just super nice and really wanted to hear about how my best friend wore my shoes for the night, and got 8 complements, but she didn’t once attribute thanks to me or my fabulous style.

And it was when I existed on a diet of frozen burritos, Cocoa Pebbles, and the occasional mouth-to-nozzle-chug of boxed wine.

Classy.

I was 21.

Nieve.

And, for a night, I was dressed as a cowgirl.

It was Halloween, and my friends and I were invited to a party in L.A.

In my mind L.A. was a far away land filled with drug lords and homeless people.

So naturally I was really excited to go.

Just kidding.

We pulled up at the party and it was in an old warehouse. We walked through a smelly corridor with white plastered walls and a yellow hanging light. Once we made it through the dirty elevator and the panic attacks, we were in an artist’s loft and apparently there was an art show going on at the same time. Or was it a party for the art show? A party/show?

A sharty?

Phow?

Whatever, I’m not a curator.

I grabbed a plastic cup filled with an orange-y liquid, and started to walk around the room. I love art. I considered myself very cultured for 21. I watched a French film once, with subtitles and everything, and I had been to at least 2 museums, I even went into a Latino market one time. I didn’t buy anything, but went in, and therefore I was cultured. That’s how it works, right?

So I had an open mind as I looked around.

First thing I saw was a jar filled with house flies. It was filled to the brim with flies that had been spray painted lime green.

Then I saw a dead purple rat pinned to a canvas.

My stomach flipped.

Additionally there were photos of brightly painted road kill blown up and on display.

I sat down in a leather chair. I readjusted my denim skirt and looked further into the room.

Party goers moved out of the way just long enough for me to catch a glimpse.

No.

Sick. It can’t be.

Yes. It was.

Pink.

I craned my neck around a guy dressed as a rubber tree (which was a man dressed as a tree with condoms hanging off his branches. Clever? Obnoxious? Perhaps I just gave you an idea for Halloween? You decide)

My mouth hung open.

I almost fell off my chair.

It couldn’t be unseen.

There, in the middle of the room was a dead palomino horse, painted pink. Blood oozed out of her eyes, and her body was bloated with death and embarrassment.

My breath caught in my throat as I tried to make sense of the whole thing.

But nothing made sense. I was in L.A. at a sharty, with a guy dressed as a condom, looking at a dead pink horse.

This was art?

No.

Disrespectful was what it was.

Shameful.

Demented.

And pink was really not her color.

We immediately left.

The ride home was silent.

Uncomfortable.

Much like the way I’m ending this post.

 

The end.