the sound that they made as they were cast out from heaven...a chorus of damned angels...
believe me, i know how i come across in this journal. i often talk about some pretty ate-up things that happen in my life, and i'm sure it can seem pretty one-sided. i'm sure a lot of it can seem like i want people to feel sorry for me, or think that i've got it a lot worse than most people have. call it "junk-exploitation" or just some self-pity bullshit. whatever. this is one of the few mediums where i don't lie to myself, and i can talk about things without feeling the results of telling someone face to face.
yes, most of it is negative. very negative. but i need an outlet. i know that this is how i keep in touch with a lot of friends, and i hate that y'all have to read about so much bad shit, but it's because i trust you. some day, when i pass on, i hope that this journal will be published, so to show that there's something more to life than what is commonly passed on as "living." there's something far darker, but far more beautiful than most can imagine. i'm twenty-four years old as of this writing, and i've lived more than most human beings who have lived to be twice my age, at least. i've felt the wide range of emotions.
that having been said, i never claim to be any wiser than the next fellow. i've had this journal for six years, and i tend to regret most of the things i've said in it. over the years, i've said some racist things, i've said some misogynist things, i've said some downright stupid things...but it was all a part of growing up. i regret them, yes...
...but i wouldn't trade it for anything. not because i don't know better now - but because reflecting has helped me to learn. the printed word is like a tattoo; there are procedures you can take to erase what you've done, but ultimately, you still have to live with your past convictions. there are procedures for everything, yes; however, in the long run, we must always confront our own perils, no matter how far beyond them we seem to have reached. scars will always be scars.
and we all have scars. to deny this would be to deny our own status as human beings. without scars, forgiveness would truly be divine. sometimes forgiveness is out of the question.
that having been said, please patronize me with a few paragraphs to question things. it involves more personal details involving drugs and the death of a good friend of mine, but ultimately, this journal is for me - so if it offends you, so be it.
sometime in early july (i think?), i scored a giant amount of cocaine. my girlfriend at the time, jerri, was asleep in the motel room we had rented that night, and she didn't accompany me to the bar that evening. rather than wake her at 6am, i went back to my apartment, which didn't have electricity at the time, to get high. i did way too much. way, way too much - all in the first shot. i stopped breathing before i sat the needle down, and all i could do was grab my phone, dial a number, and gasp "i love you so much" to a friend, while going into spasms. when she asked me what was wrong, i hung up the phone and simply watched the candle flicker. in my head, she was going to be the last person i talked to before i died. i was okay with that. the whole process took about thirty seconds.
needless to say, i didn't die. so i turned my phone off and did it again five minutes later, this time resolving to die alone. i did it again and again, with growing amounts, until most of the coke was gone. i finally quit at about 10am, when i brought the rest to jerri. i never died.
why is bobby dead? why am i not? why have i begged to die so many times, but it happens to those who have the most going for them? why did they find him face-down in a swamp, while i was asking for it only a short while ago? what sort of sick shit is that?
it's a rhetorical question - don't answer it.
i'm just saying that it isn't right. no "it should've been me" bullshit - it just isn't right. so then what's next? who's next?
yeah, i can imagine some "you're alive for a reason" scenario. trust me, it's been through my head a thousand times. it never makes it fair, though. these scars aren't mine, though. they belong to his family. it shouldn't be that way. they all deserve better. i shudder to think about which one of my friends or family will die next. it horrifies me to imagine that i'll be taking things for granted in the meantime. it's not fair to anybody.
sometimes there is no coming back. it applies to both life and death. it can make the world a very lonely, cold place.
trust me, i'll get over this tomorrow. i probably won't think the same thing a few hours from now.
but this isn't for you.
yes, most of it is negative. very negative. but i need an outlet. i know that this is how i keep in touch with a lot of friends, and i hate that y'all have to read about so much bad shit, but it's because i trust you. some day, when i pass on, i hope that this journal will be published, so to show that there's something more to life than what is commonly passed on as "living." there's something far darker, but far more beautiful than most can imagine. i'm twenty-four years old as of this writing, and i've lived more than most human beings who have lived to be twice my age, at least. i've felt the wide range of emotions.
that having been said, i never claim to be any wiser than the next fellow. i've had this journal for six years, and i tend to regret most of the things i've said in it. over the years, i've said some racist things, i've said some misogynist things, i've said some downright stupid things...but it was all a part of growing up. i regret them, yes...
...but i wouldn't trade it for anything. not because i don't know better now - but because reflecting has helped me to learn. the printed word is like a tattoo; there are procedures you can take to erase what you've done, but ultimately, you still have to live with your past convictions. there are procedures for everything, yes; however, in the long run, we must always confront our own perils, no matter how far beyond them we seem to have reached. scars will always be scars.
and we all have scars. to deny this would be to deny our own status as human beings. without scars, forgiveness would truly be divine. sometimes forgiveness is out of the question.
that having been said, please patronize me with a few paragraphs to question things. it involves more personal details involving drugs and the death of a good friend of mine, but ultimately, this journal is for me - so if it offends you, so be it.
sometime in early july (i think?), i scored a giant amount of cocaine. my girlfriend at the time, jerri, was asleep in the motel room we had rented that night, and she didn't accompany me to the bar that evening. rather than wake her at 6am, i went back to my apartment, which didn't have electricity at the time, to get high. i did way too much. way, way too much - all in the first shot. i stopped breathing before i sat the needle down, and all i could do was grab my phone, dial a number, and gasp "i love you so much" to a friend, while going into spasms. when she asked me what was wrong, i hung up the phone and simply watched the candle flicker. in my head, she was going to be the last person i talked to before i died. i was okay with that. the whole process took about thirty seconds.
needless to say, i didn't die. so i turned my phone off and did it again five minutes later, this time resolving to die alone. i did it again and again, with growing amounts, until most of the coke was gone. i finally quit at about 10am, when i brought the rest to jerri. i never died.
why is bobby dead? why am i not? why have i begged to die so many times, but it happens to those who have the most going for them? why did they find him face-down in a swamp, while i was asking for it only a short while ago? what sort of sick shit is that?
it's a rhetorical question - don't answer it.
i'm just saying that it isn't right. no "it should've been me" bullshit - it just isn't right. so then what's next? who's next?
yeah, i can imagine some "you're alive for a reason" scenario. trust me, it's been through my head a thousand times. it never makes it fair, though. these scars aren't mine, though. they belong to his family. it shouldn't be that way. they all deserve better. i shudder to think about which one of my friends or family will die next. it horrifies me to imagine that i'll be taking things for granted in the meantime. it's not fair to anybody.
sometimes there is no coming back. it applies to both life and death. it can make the world a very lonely, cold place.
trust me, i'll get over this tomorrow. i probably won't think the same thing a few hours from now.
but this isn't for you.