A Random Image

Jett Superior laid this on you on || October 23, 2004 || 12:09 am

purdy effing ohhhhkay

(Just before I sat down to write this, I said to myself, “Cheese, smoked turkey, pickles: I must have these things.”

I set about procuring them, only to find that the pickles had gone missing via the digestive system of a twelve-year-old, seemingly constantly-famished boy. Isn’t that always the way?

So I substituted with some Jalapeno-flavored Dirty Chips. But they’re not at all spicy, and therefore have been tried in the High Court of the Almighty Snack Tray and found wholly unsatisfying.)

She dropped the dime down the wishing well

Wanted to fall in after it

Sometimes every tissue in her listens

As it still calls after her,

Beckoning her even now to dive in

So yeah, 1983 was unkind to so many.

~Staring at my fingertips, seeing a microscopic me walking amongst the whorls of my prints like some sunny-day labyrinth.

~A piece of wallpaper, garlanded with green and very happy to be, kept telling me so over and over until I patiently walked up to it and instructed it to shut the living fuck up.

~Smiling deeply into a mug of soup that my hands stayed glued to long after both my smile and the warmth of the broth disappeared….no really, I thought my hands were glued to it.

These are all things I did at one time or another, so astounded by reality that seeing/doing shit like that was preferable. Ludicrous to me now, but tinged with that strange sort of bittersweetness that those who’ve not been there would never in a million years begin to understand. Alcoholics astound me. Cutters astound me. In a way that is not at all prude, hookers astound me. It is with this same sort of shell-shocked lack of understanding that I imagine some people regard the junkie.

After nearly taking matters into my own hands one well-lit spring afternoon, I promised God that I would never, ever try to kill myself again. I meant that promise, and I’ve kept it mostly well, I think. I spent a goodly amount of time roughly eighteen months later praying for him to strike me with some incurable malady, some terminal something that would have me wasting away in no time flat.

“I promised,” I’d cry, “I can’t, so you do it for me!”

And then I wised up and lived happily ever after. Or a reasonable facsimile thereof.

In the past, a mere twenty-four hours could find me going from feeling as if my bones were made of air (abundant, cool, circulating and soothing) to wanting to remove my eyeballs so that the dull-lead thudding behind them could be free, Free, FREEEEE to fly (away). It got exhausting, and I gave up before I got given up on. When you get tired, it is left to you to choose to do one of two things; you resolve to move ahead to a place in which you can find sweet-smelling, comfortable rest, or you fall into the heap of shit you’ve made and you simply don’t get up. I have no idea what genetic predeterminer announces which of these camps a person will be assigned to. I won the lottery, I suppose.

I can’t count the ways that I have been foolish in my life, but I can peg each one of them with a calendar, a song, a scent. Funny how the memory banks cache sheepishness.

But I’m still around, and if sheepishness is the greatest of my worries, well then…. I’m doing pretty fucking okay, okay?

Nobody worked it out »

Don´t be shy. Lay it on me.

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