lulu and your mom, maybe it's the migraine. I love this song and this video. I also love her little braids.
Monday, March 29, 2010
Friday, March 26, 2010
Thursday, March 25, 2010
This is a little something I wrote awhile back. Don't worry, I don't do stupid things like use drugs anymore.
I could not go home and so, after …, I turned left and kept driving…and I shouldn’t have been driving. My body was buzzing with anticipation, anticipation of the choices that laid before me. “You’re lost little girl.” The man whispered this in my ear. There was no man. I drove to the top of Beachwood Canyon, stopped at our spot, got out, smoked a cigarette and contemplated.
Phone in hand, I dialed with my eyes shut. Some small part inside of me hoped he wouldn’t answer. He did. I told him what I wanted. 5 minutes later, I was zooming back down the hill, onto the freeway and headed towards certain disaster. The overwhelming desire to get numb won, shooting down any common sense or sense of self-preservation.
20 short minutes after we spoke, I arrived at Pedro’s door. Knock, knock. Anna was there, his girlfriend. They just had a baby. How many drug dealer’s send you a Christmas card with a picture of their baby? I sat down, palms sweaty, stomach cramping. After some small talk, I made my purchase and did my best to get out the door and back to my car. Pedro was drunk and I felt bad for Anna, so I stayed, for another 20 minutes, chatting, acting like we were just 2 gals socializing. She had no one else. I was one, of a select few clients, they actually let meet them at home. Hugs goodbye and I ran to the car. My stomach was cramping.
I wasn’t dope-sick, in fact it had been awhile since I last used, but my body knew, it was preparing itself. “You’re lost little girl.” Again, the man whispered in my ear. There is no man. I stopped at Gelson’s and used the toilet, bought some tin foil and a lighter. I couldn’t go home. I drove back up the hill to the top of Beachwood Canyon and parked.
My hands were shaking. I untied the balloon and the smell hit me like a slap in the face. Instantly, I gagged- had to open the door and dry heave onto the pavement. I made my foil straw, finished unwrapping the disgusting little package, plopped a chunk of Mexican tar on a square of tin foil, lit the bottom and inhaled. A second hit. Then I felt it.....the contents of my spirit slowly being sucked out...then quickly and boomeranging back inside my head, settling in like molasses. 2 more hits and I had to puke, opened the car door again and let it out. I swished some water it my mouth, spit it out. To chase the taste- a hard butterscotch candy and a cigarette.
The opiate cloud continued to engulf me. “You’re lost little girl,” whispered the man.There is no man. I put the seat back, leaned into it and nodded out for a bit. Relief. Relief is what I felt. Relief, reminder, rerun, relapse. Relapse. The relief disappeared and I became aware of what I had done. Fuck, I knew it wasn’t going to work anymore. Relief, relapse, rerun, redemption? I needed to go. I started the car and started down the hill towards my apartment. I could not go home and so, after …, I turned left and kept driving.
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
A couple days ago, Welcome to the Dollhouse came up in conversation. I LOVE this movie. There's a lot to love. If you have somehow existed under a rock since the mid 90s, or if you do not have a good sense of humor, then there is a chance that you have not seen it. Please do not speak to me again until you have. Thank you.
You think you're hot shit, but you're really just cold diarrhea.