had I died?
With the very real probability that my writing had, yes, I suppose i had. I am still the prefuse of a chaotic web, much like the internet itself. Warbled words, jumbled pictures, memes and sexual proclivities. but what you might not know is that I tried to commit suicide last year. I had to call 911 and the house was full of emergency responders and firemen, and I remember calling out for someone, anyone, and nobody came. I had drank a bottle of tequila, popped so many klonopin & pain pills, i cannot imagine why I am still alive. One month later, I had a gastric bypass and I have quit smoking, drinking, drugs- and lost over 130 pounds.
I am a size 4-6 most days. I am engaged to British man who works for the royal government. He is a musician and crazy, just as much, as I am. We're both kinky and he spent his hours in the bathroom jerking his cock for me yesterday from 5000 miles away over our phones. I miss the days before iphones, don't you? just a little? When the presence of life was sort of on the cusp of entertainment and reality? Now it's very immediately hyperreal and a bit disgustingly close. 24 hour news cycles, "twitter reporting" and the like. I'd rather read from a safe distance. I can attach to a story, get to feel the meat and bones of a human being- not just hate someone for a vehement minute on facebook and then die off into my bed of depression because the human race is nothing more than sound bites and blurbs. So sad.
We used to care about our sex lives, rather than just telling half-assed updated chipperquips and fly by night "i a relationship" statuses. God, this whole mess is a fucking chaotic clusterfuck of too much information and not enough fact or guts behind any of it. I long for the days when an update was a real diary entry and I knew who you people fucked, how hard, how deep, that you thought about being raped or assfucked, that you loved your babies and you dyed your hair and how and why. I don't give a fuck if you are a Applebee's with your god damned cousin.
I have had this account for a long time. One of the oldest on livejournal. just shyly missing "early adopter" status. but that's okay. I am still here.
Still longing, still reaching. still brilliant and prolific, though certainly in other ways. I am taking my first actual writing course in many years in a week. We're following Bird By Bird by Anne Lamott. I already have an assignment. Being engaged is weird. Not crying about money everyday is also weird. I took my disability [also known as crazy check] money and invested it into a little two man application & web dev company and so now, I don't cry over my bills, and I actually pay them on time.
But the secret is, at night, I get in my little red car, I drive too fast, I turn up Fugazi very loud and I wanna close my eyes and drive into the nothingness. the void calls and always has. Disappearance is such a sweet muse. a siren really. I don't daydream of fucking like I did in my 20s. but I do sometimes wish, if only for a few minutes out of the day, I could be the girl who ran away.
and never looked back.
I am a size 4-6 most days. I am engaged to British man who works for the royal government. He is a musician and crazy, just as much, as I am. We're both kinky and he spent his hours in the bathroom jerking his cock for me yesterday from 5000 miles away over our phones. I miss the days before iphones, don't you? just a little? When the presence of life was sort of on the cusp of entertainment and reality? Now it's very immediately hyperreal and a bit disgustingly close. 24 hour news cycles, "twitter reporting" and the like. I'd rather read from a safe distance. I can attach to a story, get to feel the meat and bones of a human being- not just hate someone for a vehement minute on facebook and then die off into my bed of depression because the human race is nothing more than sound bites and blurbs. So sad.
We used to care about our sex lives, rather than just telling half-assed updated chipperquips and fly by night "i a relationship" statuses. God, this whole mess is a fucking chaotic clusterfuck of too much information and not enough fact or guts behind any of it. I long for the days when an update was a real diary entry and I knew who you people fucked, how hard, how deep, that you thought about being raped or assfucked, that you loved your babies and you dyed your hair and how and why. I don't give a fuck if you are a Applebee's with your god damned cousin.
I have had this account for a long time. One of the oldest on livejournal. just shyly missing "early adopter" status. but that's okay. I am still here.
Still longing, still reaching. still brilliant and prolific, though certainly in other ways. I am taking my first actual writing course in many years in a week. We're following Bird By Bird by Anne Lamott. I already have an assignment. Being engaged is weird. Not crying about money everyday is also weird. I took my disability [also known as crazy check] money and invested it into a little two man application & web dev company and so now, I don't cry over my bills, and I actually pay them on time.
But the secret is, at night, I get in my little red car, I drive too fast, I turn up Fugazi very loud and I wanna close my eyes and drive into the nothingness. the void calls and always has. Disappearance is such a sweet muse. a siren really. I don't daydream of fucking like I did in my 20s. but I do sometimes wish, if only for a few minutes out of the day, I could be the girl who ran away.
and never looked back.