Possibly

Suicide.

Flavor

I sat up all night, high as I could get, and replayed the past month over and over and over. The insanity of it all is just unfucking-believable. She’s gone.

I’m staying in this god awful motel on the edge of town and the fire alarm has gone off three times this morning. I ignored it all three times, pulled the curtains tight and listened in the dark as the other guests filed down the hallway, through the lobby and out to the parking lot like a herd of fucking sheep. Fuck that. I hope the place is on fire. Burn me to dust where I lay.

I’m pathetic. My eyes are swollen and red from crying into my pillow for hours this morning. I burnt my lip on my goddamn pipe. I’m in the same clothes I put on Thursday. A mess, brother, a fucking trainwreck. And to make things worse…

I’m out of shit. Shit being drugs, drugs being meth, meth being my undoing. I called my guy for more about an hour ago.. My guy being my dealer, my dealer being my friend, my friend being another poor bastard who Mr. Meth has by the balls in a death grip. I can usually count on waiting all fucking afternoon for him to show up. I’ll text and call trying to get a speedier delivery, but it’s pointless. Meth knows nothing about, nor cares anything for time. Might be a good idea to grab a bottle of Beam and try to get some sleep. I tried to eat a bag of chips I pulled from the machine in the lobby last night, but the past couple days my food seems to have lost all flavor.

Falling to pieces

I’ve been on the edge of my fucking chair for nearly 30 minutes. She’s in the other room packing boxes, her iPod headphones in her ears and from time to time I can hear the distinct buzzing of a Strokes song turned up way too loud. I want to grab her by the shoulders and shake her until she understands. I want her amazing smile. I want that admiring look back in her eyes. It’s gone. I snuffed it out permenantly last week as she lay on her back, my knees on her shoulders, 40 pound dumbbell raised and ready to bring down on her face. Surely I’d have killed her, caved in her skull. The things she said, though, the hurtful fucking things she said. And in my condition?

Excuses. Seems like the past 8-12 years have been a string of one excuse after another. A quilt perhaps, like that gigantic fucking AIDS quilt where each patch is a life living with it or a life lost on account of it. My quilt is excuses; excuses, failures, lies and loss all sewn together with blatant denial. Comfortable quilt. But like a little boy with his blanky, I not only continue to comfort myself in this disaster of a quilt, I feverishly continue to add squares. Last weeks colossal fuck up is just another example of my sewing skills.

I’m on the edge of this fucking chair, in my den, surrounded by all my shit. I’m packing too. We’re giving up the house, going our seperate ways after eight plus years. She’s emotionless as she works. I catch glimpses of her from my position as she moves towards the bedroom door to put something else in the box she’s packing. She’s as striking as she ever was, no, more so. I’m guessing that’s because now I’m looking at her as somebody I’ll never have again. Oh man, she’s got such a great body.

Our last place, we were going to buy the joint but discovered it was some predatory lending scheme. In the real estate office, this scumbag was going over the sale paperwork with us. He would skip over entire sections with big numbers. Now I may not look like the most educated guy, and someone with no experience of tattoos and alternative lifestyles might assume they could pull the shit this guy was. I stop the guy and ask him what the deal is with these numbers, gesturing to the skipped sections. The guy looks at me and says, “look, you’re an artist right?”
We’d had a little back and forth about mine and my girls occupations. I was in fact a digital artist. He continues, “now I’d be the last one to go ahead and tell you how to paint a pretty picture, how about you leave the real estate work to me.” Fuck all. I was out of my chair in a second and scooped up the pile of paperwork a second before he could beat me to it. He was pissed, turned red. It’s my paperwork, I’m entitled to it and I’m going to get a second opinion of these numbers fuck head. We left.

But I digress, her body, our old place. The bathroom/shower was on the first floor and our bedroom on the second. It wasn’t at all unusual for her to forget a towel and end up tooling up the stairs to the bedroom in the buff. The door to my den opened right to the stairway and I remember sitting at my computer, high as fuck, watching her perfect pear shaped ass scooot up the stairs, thinking, if I don’t quit this shit, I’m going to loose that.

Sure enough.

She went downstairs for something. I can hear her scooting around boxes in the kitchen. I’m looking dea
d at the can I keep my glass pipe and meth in. I still hide it from her. I’ll crack the window and get a few hits in before she comes back upstairs.

These Darker Days

In the cold, shadowed passages of my unconcious, I knew the path I was taking would lead me to a darkness I had never experienced before. Though I’d never lived there, I knew of its existence. I knew the foulness of the inhabitants, I was well aware of the pain felt by all within it’s borders and the souls lost and stolen. And with steel trapped irony, death, in these parts, is unforgivingly rare. With blind determination I struck out to immerse myself in no less than pure hell.

And so it begins…