“To be an addict is to be something of a cognitive acrobat. You spread versions of yourself around, giving each person the truth he or she needs—-you need, actually—-to keep them at one remove.”—David Carr (via nightofthegun)
My brother is in the hospital diagnosed with alcohol related hepatitis. Alcohol is such an insidious little thing, whispering in your ear, “You need me” while slowly killing you. He still does not know if he is going to drink. All I can do is pray. It is divine intervention that he even went to detox. I will give my liver if it still works, I love him so much. This may mean moving back east. I am literally giving it all over to the universe at this point.
I knew I was being mean, a pure cunt, a true bitch, even before I was mean. When it happens, I can’t stop it. I set out to destroy my victim, whoever it is that happens to be the unfortunate recipient of my snark. My bite is actually much harder than my bark. The words effortlessly drip from my pointy tongue, and my eyes narrow into tiny slits, closing to hide the selfless, soul that once was.
He never deserved it. They never do. I’m clever. It’s unfair really. I simply sit and observe, listen to their subconscious ooze out of their brain, riddled with awkward pauses as they find themselves becoming self-aware in front of my very eyes, filling my ears with ammo for future battles. I comfort, I coo, I set out to soothe. Then, I pounce on my prey, but only when provoked or confronted with my own weakness. I fancy myself a lioness, but I am more like an indolent, house cat; only fierce when forced or I have some small reward to reap. I don’t do it to survive, I do it because sunning myself in the window has gotten boring, and I need a meek mouse to fuck with.
So I watch; I watch you eat, I watch you play, I watch you dance across the kitchen floor and from your group I watch you stray. Then I approach, Cheshire cat smile, I am fur glued to the scales of a crocodile.
The darkness of the room envelops him. The burst of light from the screen hits his face like the morning sun. He barely has time to adjust before he sees her. Sees her. Her and him? She is not alone. She is supposed to be alone. His heart beats faster and faster and faster. He approaches and pulls out his knife. Standing in the empty theatre above the kissing couple, he jabs the back of the strange man’s neck over and over and over and over…blood gushes onto the back of his polo. Screams both on and off air fill the air. He turns to her; his mistress, his dark angel, and pierces her chest so fierce, her mouth gapes open like a ventriloquist’s doll. She draws in breath quickly, and then slumps forward. Dead like his soul has been for years, after she told him it was over. He almost did not notice the boy sitting there with his box of legos in his lap. So she did have a son. Now the world has one more orphan. He leaves the theatre.
Shattered glasses strewn about. Chaos in the loft. He looks at her with waning interest. He leaves the loft once more. She stares at all her pent up rage externalized into ripped linens, bent, wooden frames, and broken highball glasses. She sobs for what feels like days until she is out of breath and out of time. He walks the lonely streets to a hotel. He thinks of her only once, and then never again. She thinks of him only and never stops.
I told you to be patient I told you to be fine I told you to be balanced I told you to be kind In the morning I’ll be with you But it will be a different “kind” I’ll be holding all the tickets And you’ll be owning all the fines
I am excited that my Cosmo came today, and I had a dandy ol’ time reading it on the toilet.
I admit it. I am a toilet reader. It has gotten to the point where I am unable to even use the facilities without something to read. Sometimes, I will sit there on the throne reading for so long that my…