What. The. Fuck.

Beau of woman stuck on toilet wins lottery

who…. what… wtf? How…?

First of all, how do you let BLOODY TWO YEARS go by, with your girlfriend locking herself in the bathroom? I mean, at that point, can you really call her your girlfriend? Is there really a relationship there? At what point does she become the crazy lady that won’t come out of the bathroom? Or I guess on the other hand, at what point does he become someone who’s holding someone else hostage?

Secondly, how do you spend a month straight on a toilet seat? I’m not a doctor, but you can die from not sleeping for a month, right? So — you’re not dead, so you must have been eating and sleeping …. on the toilet.

Thirdly, I’d really like to know what led to this severely deranged situation. Seriously, what happened? Did they fight and she refused to come out until he apologized, or did she say, “I’m not coming out out of this bathroom until you win $20,000!”

Four Months Later

Everything has fallen to shit.

I’ve lost Rachel.

I’ve lost Chris.

I quit my job.

I’m living in my Mom’s basement. I’ve been here a week. Eight days.

I haven’t been high or smoked a cigarette in eight days.

I’m trying to find a job.

I’m so depressed that it’s an effort to get out of bed. I never used to understand how people could go on government disability for depression. I do now. If I would admit to a doctor how bad it is I could get supplement checks. I’m unstable as fuck.

Neither Chris nor Rachel even knows where I am. I left town in the middle of the night. Rachel won’t give a shit, I know. Chris might.

There is a plan. A small thin plan. I’m going to swallow my pride and let my parents carry me for a while. I’m going to finish my education. I’m going to become a web technician/designer. I’m going to have a small little house out in the country. It can be a rental. I won’t care. I’m going to grow my own weed and make webpages for money and listen to podcasts live my life how I want to fucking live it and I’m going to be left the fuck alone.

I’m waiting for my stepfather to come home and go to bed. I don’t have a dealer here but I did bring maybe three little bowlpacks with me. My favorite podcast updated today. It’s a sporadic one but it’s so worth the wait. After Davis gets home I’m going to go out to my car and smoke a bowl and listen to the show. I’ve got Nyquil and beer. I’m going to have to get a job. Get a job. Find a dealer. Survive.

Get rich quick through pain and suffering.

It’s 1:27 a.m.; I have to get up for work in three and a half hours.

I can’t sleep.

I’m too busy thinking about Chris and Amber. Yes. That Amber.

Chris.

You broke my trust and I know I broke yours. If someone were to randomly ask me if I thought you loved me, I might say yes, of course; if I were to be asked again two minutes later, I might say, maybe not, I don’t know. I can’t tell these days. It’s not entirely (if at all) your fault, I know. So many circumstances beyond of our control. And I really, really can’t tell the difference between my neurosis and fact. Which is nothing new.

And if the answer turned out to be no, I know I will break in half, split open and fall apart, just like the last three times I loved someone who changed their mind. And like I’ve told myself before — after so many times being torn open and scarring over again, you’d think it would hurt less. Amber. Allison. Allison again. Rachel.

You would think. But, no. Fresh hurt, every time.

Haven Kimmel said about drugs, the first time is the purest. Every time after that is just nostalgia.

Heartbreak, on the other hand — it hurts. It keeps hurting, continues hurting, finds new ways to hurt. Everything hurts. I should find out the source of that fuel, that persistent renewal and distill it, use it to create a new drug that never stands a chance against tolerance. I’d be fucking rolling. Big. Pimping.

But even so. Even if the answer is yes — the fact remains; we both have the same fatal flaw: we’re going to fuck whomever we want to fuck, consequences be damned.

Damaged goods aren’t nearly as functional or valuable. Eventually I won’t even want to love anymore. Eventually even if I wanted to, I’d forget how.

Wait. Wait. Just wait. October. Answers will be here in October. But October isn’t Godot. Answers are an abstract — just an acknowledgment of consequences — the double jeopardy round of real life. October will eventually come and go, and somehow I’m pretty sure I’m still going to wind up stranded.

Amber.

Really? Seven, eight years? Now? Now I find out that you loved me then, and despite

fucking everything

that’s telling me to run, your charm is in my skin; even after two nights, and I want to hold your body close to mine and kiss your neck and know your taste. I am so fucked up right now Bam Bam, you don’t even know — if only because I’ve been working so hard to keep you from knowing.

Who are you? What do you want from me?

You’re a goddamn, dangerously volatile, intriguing, magnetic disaster. I’m going to apologize in advance, but surely you’ll understand — I’m going to keep you at a distance. I am not going to let you crawl inside of me again. Or not for a long, long while at least. Because frankly, I can’t swear that I’ll be able to resist you.

You are a miracle, but that is not all.
You are also a stiff drink, and I am on call.
You are a party and I am a school night.
I’ve lost my door key, but you are my porch light.

You’ll never know dear, just how much I loved you;
You’ll probably think this was just one big excuse.
But I stand committed to a love that came before you
And the fact that I adore you is but one of my truths.

Nobody forgets their first (please don’t let this hurt)

When I was sixteen, I made friends with a girl named Amber and my casual attraction to women blew up into full force desperate first love. We became hard and fast best friends, and god i was so in love.

And I never told her.

It lasted about a year and half, but it felt like decades. It ended like surgery gone bad, tragic and bloody and sickening.

Nobody forgets their first.

Last week I found a note in my mailbox at work. From Amber. She’s moved back to town to reevaluate her life. She has things she needs to tell me. She wants to see me again.

She never knew I was a sometimes-lesbian. Or at least I never told her. But I doubt it could have been all that hard to figure out. My mom figured it out, for goodness’ sake.

She told me that she dumped her fiance, that she has things to tell me. And to this day, I refuse to believe that she didn’t love me too.

I’m going to see her this weekend.

And already, sitting here, waiting for her email, I’m falling in love again. Please, Amber, be enough of the same girl you were nine years ago. Please come in and take me out of this life, away from Chris and Rachel and the jealousy and the drugs. Please be who I need you to be. I want to fall in love with you.

Please don’t let this hurt.

Artificial Stewed Thread

Josh took me to the Asian grocery store. I walked around wide-eyed and ignorant, and tried to imagine the reasons for these packages. Somehow I think that buying fresh-cut bamboo hearts out of buckets of water at the front counter should be indulgent and refreshing, but for the life of me I wouldn’t know what to do after I bought it? Should I just eat it? Should I cook it? Should I have a nice conversation with it so it doesn’t feel used?

I would like to know.

So I picked out a frozen watermelon thing from Korea whose package really was a plastic brass knuckle with a suck-hole. De-lish. It really was just frozen watermelon, not frozen artificial color and flavor. And who doesn’t want to suck watermelon slushie out of imitation brass knuckles? Seriously.

Josh picked out for me a tiny little glass of Aloe Juice, which I thought was poisonous. Apparently not. Also delish. I wish I’d gotten the big bottle.

And finally, I got Artificial Stewed Chicken Flavor Instant Sweet Potato Thread, which is a lunch ordeal like cup o’soup. Except this came with a packet of dried peas, a packet of anonymous powder, and a packet of disgusting goop that I swear is chicken entrails, and a miniature fork with a message printed on it. I bet it’s a very friendly message.

I boiled water and poured everything in. It’s supposed to be eaten exactly six minutes after the water is added. Except those noodles are completely see-through and remind me of the time my cat had worms. Plus, that chicken goop really weirded me out. So me and this bowl of instant Stewed Potato Thread and kinda just staring each other down.

I may be able to destroy you in my belly, Mister Artificial Thread, but you could also make my life vomitariffic. And that’s the power of intimidation.

I’m sick of using initials

My room is a mess. My whole apartment is a mess. I hate the way I live. But it doesn’t matter, because I’m going to kill myself soon.

It’s such a relief to have finally given in.

My whole life has been a fuck up. A mistake. And now it’s going to be over. Finally. I’m going to have David take me to Office Depot tonight for the razor blades. I’ll tell him it’s for an art project.

I scared myself just then. My iTunes started playing the song that for a long time I wanted played at my funeral.

My funeral. What a fucking waste of time that would be.

But it scared me and I went outside to cry. I called Chris and hung up after it rang once. I’m surprised he’s still speaking to me at all. I don’t need to burden him with my shame. His life is good. He doesn’t need me in it.

That’s love. That’s how much I love him. He’d be so much better off with me gone. I wonder if he realizes that. Probably.

So I sat and watched birds for a while. One of the things that still makes me happy. Birdwatching.

What a fucking waste of space.

.

.

.

.

.

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I’m okay. It’s going to be okay. Everything is going to be okay. I’m still alive.

it’s secret for a reason

I feel kinda sick.

Also, I hate myself.

For the past two days, I’ve had a sore throat and ears, which is how I always start out desperately submitting to violent strep throat. It happens often enough to have it’s own distinct horrifying pattern.

Tomorrow I will want to die.

All this week, in varying patterns, I’ve wanted to die.

Certain aspects of my (hyper-intense) religious upbringing have stuck with me, despite everything. Such as: Suicide is a sin. A sin that will send you to a special kind of hell, even more horrifying than normal hell. And even with my obsessive fear going to of normal hell, at least it’s not suicide-hell. That place is way intense. It’s also in Southwest America, interestingly enough.

Also, bigger than that, is my (hyper-intense) pride, which is strange, given how I hate myself. But still. I. Am. Not. Weak.

Which is good.

We could start with the boring, whiney mental illness part, or with the part where once again I’m a drug-addicted whore.

The good part is coming, I promise.

Sometimes I feel like I have to work So Hard to maintain mental equilibrium; even still, I don’t always do so well. Most of the time, I just accept the fact, the way I accept my astigmatism and finicky skin. But sometimes I get so tired of trying so hard, and then I have to work at even caring enough to try, and eventually I want to just give up.

This week was one of those weeks. I’m so tired of being insecure; I’m tired of feeling like I will never connect with other people; I’m so tired of being poor and afraid to get a decent job; I’m so tired of feeling like I always say the wrong thing at the wrong time (and usually way too loudly); and I’m so fucking tired of bothering not to go crazy.

One of my supervisors at work overheard me saying he was a ginormous douche bag who fantasized about being repeatedly gang raped.

I am also so tired of having that kind of anger in me. I mean, really, what the fuck is up with that? Where does it come from?

And then I just sat down at work and cried and cried, while C freaked out because he didn’t know what to do and just settled on ignoring me.

That was Thursday. I went home and slept for hours and cleansed my soul a little. Even though when I woke up, the urge to just fucking give up was there, but it had abated enough to bear. I considered skipping work on Friday, but I Am Not Weak and shamed myself into going. My manager, who I hardly ever see and certainly never talk to, actually had me come to his office. He was concerned; he said it was apparent I was Not Okay.

I told him it was true, I was Not Okay, but it wasn’t That Bad and would eventually be better because I’m more concerned about pride and shame than being okay.

I went wandering around looking for C to tell him about it, but S.R. caught me wandering around and chastised me in his passive-aggressive way. I countered it magnificently.

(S. R. is my direct supervisor. He’s my fucked-up ideal of the Perfect Man. He’s ten years older than me, tall and skinny with clean strong hands, awkward, quiet, intelligent, a little neurotic, and confides in me. This makes me want to fuck him, so hard. I’ve never once come on to him, or even vaguely flirted him. Nor have I told anybody. C tells me that S.R. has a crush on me and checks out my T&A all the time. I accept this too.)

S.R.: “What are you doing? Are you looking for C?”
Me: “Yep.”
S.R.: “Why? You know you guys could go just a few minutes without each other sometimes.”
Me: “Yep.”

I started to walk away. When I got to the door of the stock room, I turned around.

Me: “Why? Are you jealous?”
S.R. “Yes!”
Me: “I thought so.”

I left.

All things considered, I didn’t want to just Give Up so badly that day. I thought I really was getting better. I went home with C, where things seemed quiet and strained and I couldn’t pick up why. So I went with R to her house to drop off T. R asked me too many questions and I like her, so I gave in and told her that C and I had been fucking, often, for almost a year. I told her I loved fucking him, and I loved him, and I liked her, and I liked fucking her too, and that maybe we could all date each other when C finally broke up with M.

Then R told me that she had fucked C last week. She begged me not to tell C I knew. I promised. And that’s when everything fell apart.

I didn’t feel it at first. At first I was just amused, and then eventually a little put off that it had to have been a secret. Then eventually a little while later I was jealous that I wasn’t involved. C, R and I have threesomes, which are mad fun.

But slowly, quietly, the rage and jealously grew. We were all high and I forgot to even care. But that night, C once again pawned me off on someone else for a ride home, not caring if it was inconvenient for him/her or embarrassing for me. So I sat here that night with no cigarettes, and held the rage and jealousy quietly in my heart. And it grew.

Why should I even care? C is living with his girlfriend, for Christ’s sake. He cheats on her every time he fucks me, and especially every time he fucks R and me at the same time. Why should I be surprised if he fucks R? Why shouldn’t I expect it to happen?

Because I love C. He is mine.

I wasn’t upset with R at all. How could I be? She didn’t know that I’d been fucking him, or that I loved him. As much as I’d told her, I hadn’t yet told her everything. I still haven’t.

But C. That fucking bastard. I thought he loved me too. I thought he knew that he was mine, that M only had him on loan until their lease was up. We talked about our future; we talked about love, about the rest of our lives.

We also talked about how we both thought monogamy is unnatural, how sometimes it’s okay to fuck someone just for the sake of fucking. We have threesomes with R.

But I thought, I really, truly, stupidly, honestly believed that both C and R really only wanted me. I thought C loved me and just thought it was fun to have two bitches sucking him off. I thought R was really a lesbian.

Of course, I’m supposed to really be a lesbian too.

And now C has as much of an interest in R as he has with me. I am enraged and unbearably depressed.

I can’t fucking believe myself. So fucking naïve.

God, how fucking long is this story? I’m bored with it already.

So I called C on it, even though I pinky-promised R I wouldn’t. I guess I’m not that strong after all. I couldn’t hold that hurt anonymously. I tried; I gave up.

Saturday morning C and I arrived at work a few minutes early.

Me: “I have to tell you something, and you can’t tell anybody.”
C: “Uh. Okay.”
Me: “I know what you did.”
C: “What do you mean?”

Long silence.

I was limbo torture. How could I have this conversation without being a huge whiney needy bitch? How could I break my promise to R? I am strong. I want to be impenetrable. I want to have a cool head and not care.

Quite a few years ago, I read somewhere that someone said “love is the sudden realization that something other then oneself is real.” Being such an introvert (and hating it), that stuck with me. I love C. His realness is vibrantly real to me. I feel his feelings. And that made me want to be nice.

Me: “I know what you did.” (Again)
C: “What did I do?”

Pause.

Me: “Last week.”

Pause.

Me: “You intentionally had R over when I wasn’t there. You took her up to your room. You fucked her.”

I said all of that so quietly, so calmly and rationally. I was detached from myself, and quite proud of myself for it.

C sighed, closed his eyes. He said, “I’m sorry,” and the tone in his voice said that he really meant it.

I walked away.

An hour or so later, after my heart hurt so badly that I was willing to give in a little, I found him. I made up a conversation. I asked him where his iPod was. He said he didn’t know. I offered him mine and he scoffed. I said, “Hey, there’s good music on there!”

He said, “I’m sure you think so.”

He was sitting on the floor; I was standing over him. I fucking lost it. I started kicking his ribs, but with the side of my feet, not the flat. He got up and pulled my arms taut. I hissed at him to let me go.

“Apologize,” he demanded.

“Fuck you,” I said.

“Apologize for kicking me.” He pulled my arms tighter. He was a wrestler for years. He knew what he was doing.

“Baby,” I said, slowly and deliberately, “I will scream so loud that you’ll be fired for harassment.”

He let go. I walked away.

I wanted to apologize. I didn’t care what he’d done. I’d attacked him and I couldn’t stand it. A half hour later he walked by. I called his name.

He walked away.

Eventually it became the time we take our morning smoke break together. Ever since I started smoking, I’ve refused to smoke at work. I figured it would make me incrementally less poor and a little healthier. Really, I hate to smell bad.

But then I realized I could spend 10 more minutes with C, and that’s all that mattered.

He found me, asked if I wanted to go smoke. I told him he was sorry, that I wasn’t really kicking him over the iPod comment. He said he knew that. He’d been crying; he said he didn’t know what he was doing and he hated it. I told him it was okay, that I just didn’t want to be excluded. I told him that he could fuck whomever he wanted; I told him I loved him and I didn’t want to lose him. I asked him if he was starting to love R; he said no, that he really only loved me.

The pain in his voice was real.

I asked him if he thought we were getting in over our heads. He shrugged. I agreed. I asked him if he wanted to stop. He said no. I said I didn’t either. Which is not completely true. This is the kind of life I’m used to. I don’t know how to behave any differently.

Actually, we spent the rest of the day tentatively poking the sore spots. I fluctuated between feeling like it was everything was ok to feeling like I’d fucked up and lost everything I loved. I fantasized about the time C really would be mine; I fantasized about going to sleep and never waking up. I asked him the part that hurt the most, about if it really was predetermined. R had told me that she and C deliberately made up a reason to take me home early one day because they knew they wanted time without me. C said that wasn’t true.

I don’t know whom I believe.

C told me that when he goes to Raleigh this weekend, there’s going to be a night when he and R plan on getting together and going clubbing and getting crunk. Just the two of them; I’m going to be two hours away sans car, sans plans, sans friends.

I really thought that there’s be a limit to how many times I could break in half in my life. Eventually it’s got to just be scar tissue, right? Eventually it doesn’t even have feeling.

I can only hope.

S was going to pick us up that day. I spent the day texting R, trying to find someone to lick my wounds. S wanted to go up to the flea market with C and I to find some of that shit that passes drug tests.  I begged R and T to come along, to rescue me from the proximity with C. I made out with R in the middle of the flea market; I wanted C to see it and I wanted it to hurt.

I abandoned C and R and went home with S. It took another bit of my reserve to send them off together, but I had a plan. I was going to fuck S. It was only fair.

But when we got to his place, other people were there.

I told him that I needed some no-strings attached revenge sex and that I’d chosen him. He accepted the fact. It didn’t happen, but it almost did, and that’s almost as important.

Back with C, R, and T. We smoke the rest of S’s fine, fine $300oz stash and spend the rest of the night restless and bored and seeking out more pot. Seriously, it was a six-hour mission for a quarter. Jesus.

I spend the night flirting with R, obsessively noting when C sits next to R; that he looks at her when he’s talking more than he looks at me.

Today, I’ve been cascading between really fucking high and mildly high since about an hour after I woke up. Fuck that shit. Fuck. That. Shit. I spent the week trying to heal myself, only to stumble into this fucking mess. I’m not dealing with this shit sober and alone. No fucking way.

D showed up, like he does out of the blue once every couple of weeks or so.  But unlike the rest of the times, this time I let him fuck me. Actually, I didn’t fight too hard while he fucked me, even though I told him to stop, even though I told him no. Eventually I just laid on my back and thought about whether I would deliberately use this as a weapon against C, or just keep it to myself.
I let D eat my pussy and I let him make me come, which wouldn’t have happened if I was straight.  I let him buy me dinner and kiss my mouth.

I can fuck other people too, you goddamn cheating bastard.