Monday, January 22, 2007

"Drugs are bad, mmkay?"

"I don't even know who you are anymore" she said, grabbing my baggie and flying across the room with it. Did she ever really know who I was, or who I thought I was, or even who I wasn't? I was going to say it, but if there's one thing I had learned about my mom up to that point it was that she had a really strong right arm, and that was the one she hit with.
I tried not to roll my eyes, but this scene was so mundane I couldn't stand it. It was exactly the kind of thing I never wanted to happen again in my life. Something familiar.
I could still smell the smoke on my sweater, it's sweetness drifting into my nostrils, distracting me from her invariable rage. And she wondered why I loved it so much, what the draw was, what was so exciting about it.
It gets me away from here. From you.
It helps me sleep mom. It makes me hungry. It makes me forget that I'm however old I am and still share a bed with my mom, share a room with my entire family, that I'm a freshman in high school and I work so many hours at my job that I barely have time to take a shit anymore, forget trying to actually do my schoolwork.
She was waving her hand in front of my face. All that time she was in my face I didn't even see her, didn't feel her.
"What else have you been taking?" she asked, as if she had found aspirin instead of a bag of weed. What do I say? Advil? Midol?
Taking. It's not taking, it's experiencing.
I wanted to say that so bad, but again, the right arm.
It struck me then that she shouldn't be surprised in the least bit. I came home smelling like weed and acting like a stoner everyday of my life and it takes her finding the bag to say something? It didn't seem logical. Nothing did.
She stood there, waving her skinny arms around and yelling but she seemed to just get more quiet the wider her mouth opened. She had an aura, a putrid yellow aura that made me nauseous and the room spun and dipped, like a child imitating a dancer they'd seen on television. Little colored sparks were coming out of her eyes, her fingertips, her frazzled blonde hair.
"Seriously?" I wondered aloud, slowly, before my face met the carpet.

I guess you could say this story has a moral, and I guess you could say that moral would be "sometimes weed isn't just weed. sometimes it's weed with angel dust."
But I'm sure you knew that already.

Saturday, January 20, 2007

best month ever

since my mom left today, here's a recap of what we did the past month:

Photobucket - Video and Image Hosting


Saturday, January 13, 2007


i'll find a place at the end of the world
and i won't come back until you're good
when you're gone i'll stack your bones
in my office so i'm never alone
your keys will jangle in my pockets
next to your watch
i'll take the photos out of lockets
it's time to stop
no dirt nap for you, you get no rest
i'll keep you up all night
i must confess
i can hear you sometimes like a whistling train
right next to my ear, soft like rain
until it gets closer like machine gun blasts
pounding in my ears like an airplane crash
i wake up bloody and bruised
just like when i was with you...

i found my place at the end of the world
and didn't come back until you were good
good and dead that's all they wrote


Wednesday, January 10, 2007

curiosity killed the cat, and by cat I mean my self esteem

I weighed myself today and I've got to tell you...not happy with the results. Not at all. I feel like I have no control over myself, or my body or any aspect of my life. I was perfectly fine and everything was going well and then I just HAD to weigh myself. I just HAD to let my morbid curiosity get the best of me.

And now, I'm going to pay for it. Big time. I just know it.

Sunday, January 07, 2007

i'm leaving

i just don't know.
it's one of those want to go, but not totally sure if it's rational or possible.

but i hope it is.
i'm ready to get out of here.

wish me luck.

Wednesday, January 03, 2007

what do you really mean?

I've been paying close attention to the things that come out of my mom's mouth. Sometimes I think she makes very astute observations without even realizing it or meaning to. This morning, when we were the only ones awake, we were discussing whether or not we'd be going grocery shopping.
"Your grandma said we were going" she said.
I rubbed my eyes, rolled over and said "That doesn't mean we are."

"That's why you guys confuse me. You never say what you mean or mean what you say."

I blink.
It never occurred to me that that was bad until it came out of her mouth with such contempt attached to it. To me, it always just meant everything was flexible.

"I'm not like that" I retorted, quickly.
"You kind of are."

Kind of.
Good enough. That means I'm not so far gone that I can't change. That I'm only about knee deep into it and I have the rest of my body to pull myself out.
I don't want to be that type of person.
When I say something, I don't want people to have to fight their way through the pretext and subtext to find out what I meant. I want them to take it, run with it, and fulfill its intentions.

So from now on...
do what you say
say what you mean
one thing leads to another.

or something like that.

Monday, January 01, 2007

note to self: 2007 edition

calm down
grow up
stay young (at heart, of course)
get a job you damn dirty hippie
learn to drive
take some time to think
be less clingy
be more loving
stop playing the victim
like it or lump it
talk less shit
make more friends
stop dressing like a boy
spend less money
move out
stay moved out for longer than two months
stop jumping in head first
don't overanalyze things
be a better friend
talk someone into going camping
eat more cake
wean yourself away from Purell
don't apologize for being yourself
learn a card trick
finish a play
don't let theatre run your life
lose a weekend
don't quit school
play more games
don't buy pants unless they REALLY fit
work out more
don't obsess about working out
leave your hair alone
dress like a pirate
have more fun
buy a real life corset
don't pretend to not be smart
be less jealous
be more trusting
don't push it
and don't forget to breathe.