neopolitan.
I always thought that the most glamorous addiction of them all was pills--a posh little pink-heart pillbox full of optimism. I hear they're more fun with a concurrent addiction, like, say, alcohol.
The funniest part is that I'm ignoring calls. Important calls. Someone's sick and dying, rotting away from his spine outward. I was supposed to have dinner with him. It's Mother's Day and mine has called me severally. I'm stargazing into my mattress, happy to be breathing.
Do boys like silly girls like me, ever? Girls who don't exist?
Labels: girls, pills
keystoned.
It's a rare occasion that I go out and "party" with people because the idea seems so cheap to me--flailing around in someone's living room, dancing with some gent that won't remember me the next day; running to the bathroom to pee every three seconds and fluff my hair a bit; and eventually throwing up on my own shoes as a friend of mine holds back my once-straightened hair that's now wavy with other people's sweat...I'd like to think I'm above that, but truth be told, I'm not. No more than anyone else, anyway. Right now, I'm full of cheap beer and my belches taste like the terrible potpourri my mother used to keep in a warmer on the hearth of the double-wide trailer I grew up in. Let me not pretend to be ladylike--No girl, no matter how feminine, is immune from beer burps. Don't lie to yourself.
Metacognition is a bitch.
If I had my way, I'd count stars with a certain tryst of mine, pouring shot after shot of vodka into my hollow stomach and breathing him into my lungs to stay. I've never felt beautiful to anyone, but for that moment, I thought I was onto something. In that moment, I understood alcoholism, college dropouts, and shotgun weddings. I don't know that I'll ever be the type to fall in love, despite my longing. I'm programmed in a queer little fashion, made of ripped stitches and cliche little promises you'll forget by morning.
I remind myself that at one point, you were happy. I helped bring that about. That's how I sleep at night.
How do you, now that I'm not?
Labels: beer, girls, insight, trysts, vodka
don't fear the reaper.
Television teaches me all the fascinating ways I could die. Books and letters from the scholars delineate the methods by which my brain will inevitably consume itself when I turn thirty. Somehow, I can't help but think that I should be more worried than I am, but I can't move myself to care about it anymore. I've since moved my glass to the bedside table, where the remnants of three dollar wine are slowly turned into water again by one of the many leaks in my top-floor apartment's ceiling.
I'm blowing smoke out my window into the storm. Ain't no Jesus coming for the girls like me.
Labels: cigarettes, death, girls, Jesus, wine
