My friend S. - we stopped talking for a while after she decided to try drugs and date a dealer. We used to go out and get dead drunk before that happened. We used to hang out and not get drunk and have the time of our lives. Vodka and chatting up random guys until the alcohol started wearing off of me and she got too drunk. The she sagged. Deadweight and heavy like a potato sack, I'd have to carry her around while she mumbled incoherently and I laughed my head off at the whole thing.
She'd drink coffee right after dumping cigarette ashes in it. We'd dance until our feet went numb. We'd go clubbing in flip flops. The point is - she got me. As fucked up as it sounds, she understood. That the shallow red cuts on my wrists were battle scars, not suicide. Teen me coping with the world. As fucked up as it sounds.
Me, I met her once while I was out stealing handbags from unsuspecting turists with another friend. True fact. She was with some boy and asked me if I'd seen him touching her. I said no. He hadn't been. Her breath smelled like nail polish remover, the little pixie.
My other friend swore opening the bag and finding nothing. Motherfucker. And my friend S., she was drunk and thought I was talking about her. Stalking towards me with her tiny fist up my face. She was too drunk to hit but it was still funny as hell.
The point is, there are those who fuck up and those who are fucked up. The point is, we're ok.
The point is, this random memory came up and I wanted to write this down. Not wanting to be limited in being too human, I don't want to forget anything. Just in case I do, this will remind me of the times.
I don't want to forget.
I don't want to.
Saturday, May 30, 2009
Monday, May 25, 2009
Perseverence
You know how you suddenly find yourself saying ' I'm just not gonna drink for a while. I'm just taking some time off...' and find that people are looking at you weird and you're trailing off knowing that as soon as you forget why you've promised yourself this, you'll be out with the girls downing vodka shots and daquiris?
I don't know how it is with everybody else. No, wait. Wait. I do. This happens at every New Year/Holiday with almost everyone I know.
It's not like I drink particularly ridiculous amounts. Ah, who am I kidding? Me and my friends are a bunch of closet drunks. I'm especially jealous of my friend Maria. She's this tiny girl who apparently has one hollow leg. She ends up hauling my ass/dressing me back up wherever we go. Good times!
The point being, I'm fairly disappointed in myself. I used to have bad ass alcohol tolerance, but lately I'm finding that the whole getting-pissed-and-doing-ungodly-embarassing-things is happening a bit too early in the night for my liking. Not only that. I then proceed to pass out for the rest of the night while my friends stumble about and trip on me several times a night.
The problem, people, are the so called ' time offs'. They're bad for your health. Honest to God, your alcohol tolerance to intake ratio lowers to a point where you start waking up disoriented in some friend's bed, stripped down to your underwear for whatever reason, sporting bruises you didn't even work hard for, with your mouth tasting like ass , an empty bucket conveniently placed next to the bed and barf on the floor.
It's embaressing I tell you.
SO what I'm going to is this... instead of giving up so easily next time, instead of giving myself a 'break', I'm going to try harder . Up myself to the 'Advanced Drinker' status. This is very necessary for a girl in this day and age... You never know when some creep will try to get in your pants by getting you drunk off your ass. Or when the next game of 'I Never' will take place. Or Strip Poker. You get the drift. A girl needs to be prepared. Preseverence is key...
I don't know how it is with everybody else. No, wait. Wait. I do. This happens at every New Year/Holiday with almost everyone I know.
It's not like I drink particularly ridiculous amounts. Ah, who am I kidding? Me and my friends are a bunch of closet drunks. I'm especially jealous of my friend Maria. She's this tiny girl who apparently has one hollow leg. She ends up hauling my ass/dressing me back up wherever we go. Good times!
The point being, I'm fairly disappointed in myself. I used to have bad ass alcohol tolerance, but lately I'm finding that the whole getting-pissed-and-doing-ungodly-embarassing-things is happening a bit too early in the night for my liking. Not only that. I then proceed to pass out for the rest of the night while my friends stumble about and trip on me several times a night.
The problem, people, are the so called ' time offs'. They're bad for your health. Honest to God, your alcohol tolerance to intake ratio lowers to a point where you start waking up disoriented in some friend's bed, stripped down to your underwear for whatever reason, sporting bruises you didn't even work hard for, with your mouth tasting like ass , an empty bucket conveniently placed next to the bed and barf on the floor.
It's embaressing I tell you.
SO what I'm going to is this... instead of giving up so easily next time, instead of giving myself a 'break', I'm going to try harder . Up myself to the 'Advanced Drinker' status. This is very necessary for a girl in this day and age... You never know when some creep will try to get in your pants by getting you drunk off your ass. Or when the next game of 'I Never' will take place. Or Strip Poker. You get the drift. A girl needs to be prepared. Preseverence is key...
Friday, May 22, 2009
Never think
Do you know how you can never quite describe a feeling? And then you stop trying at all because not talking about feelings spares you having to ask about other people's feelings in return. Like some sort of emotional obligation. It's not like I am this heartless bitch. Mmm... I'm just a bit... detached. Mostly.
The point being, you know how leave a specific place, a physical place, a town, a country, a continent. And you live away for whatever, and you grow and you change and maybe it's for the better and maybe it's for the worse.
And then for whatever reason, a visit, a duty, a duty visit, you head back. And you realise that. It's the same old pervert that's running the shop down the road. The same old drunks walking stumbling into clubs, the same bus drivers, the same faces, names. The same, the same. It's like, no matter how much you changed and how much time has passed, you slip right in. Blend right in. Like you've never left. Like you're expected to still be the person you were before you left. Play the role. Static.
Some people call this routine, or pattern or comfort or home. This things never changing. This everything being so constant, so monotone, so the same.
Some people call it 'life'.
Other people, me, I call it claustrophobia.
Maybe the trick is to destroy your roots. Turn your past into a story. Maybe the point is to create our own unroutine. Where everything is not always planned. Maybe when you stop letting your upbringing condition you, not even the most boring of places and spaces will.
The sound of rattling cages is choking me up.
The point being, you know how leave a specific place, a physical place, a town, a country, a continent. And you live away for whatever, and you grow and you change and maybe it's for the better and maybe it's for the worse.
And then for whatever reason, a visit, a duty, a duty visit, you head back. And you realise that. It's the same old pervert that's running the shop down the road. The same old drunks walking stumbling into clubs, the same bus drivers, the same faces, names. The same, the same. It's like, no matter how much you changed and how much time has passed, you slip right in. Blend right in. Like you've never left. Like you're expected to still be the person you were before you left. Play the role. Static.
Some people call this routine, or pattern or comfort or home. This things never changing. This everything being so constant, so monotone, so the same.
Some people call it 'life'.
Other people, me, I call it claustrophobia.
Maybe the trick is to destroy your roots. Turn your past into a story. Maybe the point is to create our own unroutine. Where everything is not always planned. Maybe when you stop letting your upbringing condition you, not even the most boring of places and spaces will.
The sound of rattling cages is choking me up.
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