Research is for Pussies

I’ve always wanted to be a slice of data, a dataset, a sliver of silver.  I’ve been lucky enough to be in the position to do research this past week or so, scouring for anything to prove that ENY immigrant kids are f**d.  There’s a lot of anecdotal stuff but not a lot of hard facts. I need stuff like: White people x times more likely to commit suicide and definitely binge drink more than Hispanics. But nothing on the side of the immigrants except for those fiery Koreans boy, you better watch out for them…

What’s hard about going through the ACS, Dept of Mental Health, for delightful pictures of the misery of New York-kind, is that I’m confronted with myself as said immigrant, as bitch, ho, troubled one, abused, etc. Everyone’s a statistic in a sense; but it’s brutal to have to research yourself as the subject of govt sponsored study. Like, the govt knows their shit, & shit – how important mental health is to saving tax dollars, etc. The ACS website looks the shit, the DYFS website looks the shit – nyc.gov/health makes pretty health profiles for communities that tell you exactly how many people in a certain zipcode want to off themselves.  The solutions are to eat right and look people in the damn eye.  The solutions are to smile more often and get thee a boyfriend or a girlfriend to watch t.v. with and get fat with.  They did not do anything for me, these places.  These places get so much money – Safe Horizon, for instance.  The one time I called them I got a jacked, impatient sounding girl who told me to call back later after I called the police.  Now that’s not nice. That’s simply not professional.

So forgive me if i’m a little cynical as to the efficacy of these organizations that may be just a cover for the govt really fucking up, or people fucking up, or whatever it is in the water that’s fucking us up.  As statistics show there are gazillions of people – or rather,

6% of New Yorkers who report having clinically significant emotional distress.  Persons with this distress often experience depressiion….blah blah…substantially interfere with a major life activity, such as eating, maintaining a household, working, or developing and maintaining personal relationships.  A person who is very depressed or anxious may be more likely than others to engage in behaviors that contribute to poor health, such as smoking, getting no exercise and eating a poor diet.

These telephone surveys are jacked though.  Who do you know that’s ever done a telephone survey? I conducted one once with the people in South Dakota or something for a MoveOn initiative involving persuading people to vote for Kerry, but that was pretty ridiculous.  What I got out of that was learning how to make mojitos.  (It was a mojito calling-people-to-vote-for-Kerry party).  Anyway the point is, if the aforementioned counts as depression pretty much everyone is depressed, innit. Except for my dad who pops chlorophyll pills and has never damaged his body more than his eyeballs looking at unpretty things. That is one not-depressed person!

states of research: I haven’t slept much for a week – 3 hours last night – and doing copious amounts of research which will probably come to naught since I have very little influence in my place of work, research on issues in which i already have very intimate knowledge of – or should i say anecdotal – which I wouldn’t be able to use here in these 300,000$ proposals, no it simply wouldn’t do – furthermore i haven’t seen my therapist in 2 weeks.  I’ll see her today thank god, but first i have to go to a Staff/karoake/dinner meeting in which we will get down with the chicken drumsticks.  How hilariously fun, bonding, lovely.

The harddrive was for naught, and so was my work, all in a day’s love: So the New Orleans video for the church I went down with, did not even take place yesterday as planned.  I was happy enough to receive the tall pastor’s assistant’s apologies, and the very typically beautiful Chris picking me up and hugging me so I got to be lifted off the floor for a few minutes. I arrived late, sweaty, shaky from a caffeine pill, panicky from hunched over a computer working with fraction second increments of video. Everyone was already there – John, who looked somehow radiant, if a guy could be – sat there with an inexplicable role of plaid wrapping paper in a CVS bag, and Ian and Mary sat looking fashionable and bored out of their minds (but supportive). JL came right behind me, distastefully beholding the Jesus aspect and the fact that I kept spilling stuff on my inappropriate striped Rainbow tank dress. He in contrast was smooth in his Brooks Brother’s shirt, plucky and shaved.

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