I am writing this whatever about Friday and weed and red bull and very-much-so-alive people. I spend too much time fantasizing. Mostly about sticking things in electrical sockets and dropping my blowdryer in the sink while I'm brushing my teeth, how my body would shake and shudder, how no one would see my blue eyes as they roll back to see the projections in the back of my eyes. I would fall, and smell maybe even of charred flesh. Every time I go down the stairs I am to blame for my mother's miscarriages.
Maybe even stars.
So, this is a whatever about weed and stars.
It is Friday and I am scared. I am full of conviction and sorrow. Because when I look at you, I see how you betrayed me. I see Stephen in the reflections of your wishing well eyes. Your eyes are the original wishing well eyes. I see me brutally beaten, I see you not being there. I see apologetic look from you, but from everyone else it is just judgemental. Friday is my least favourite day of the week because of this. I see you and your smile, trying to coax one out of me. You are not to blame.
I want oyster bake. We rode the Starship 2000 and clutched each other's hands as the dizziness got the better of us. Round and round and round you and me are spinning, we are frozen in that moment. There are no tickets or other people or tears.
I am sitting by the pool with my cousin. It is the first time I am smoking. And I am giddy. We smoke and smoke and smoke and smoke until I am out of my chair and sitting on the ground, barely able to hold myself up. I called this at one point my first taste of freedom and my downward spiral. I stare up at the stars and then down to the illuminated pool. I briefly consider sliding in and inhaling.
I don't know how to tell people that I can't stand myself. It's gotten worse and worse since people blame me for so much. I remember a blonde boy who opened his tired, bruised looking eyes and smiled. He offered me a chance at normality. Instead, I just gently rubbed his scalp until he fell asleep.
When I stare at my ceiling right before I fall asleep at night I think of the boy at school. He looks like my dead cousin. I woke up crying one night, right after my cousin had died and I had seen the boy who looked all too much like my cousin. My mother did not hold me, she merely stuck her head in and stated:
"I'm trying to sleep. Keep it down."
I question now why god only takes the nice ones.
April 30th, 1945 was the day that Hitler and his wife committed suicide. They had been married only 40 hours. Almost sixty-five years later I almost died, deaths and supernovas occur on the last day of April.
If I wrote in lowercase and ate my vegetables and said my prayers would it make a difference?
I am drinking red bull and vodka.
I haven't cried.
I can't any more.
I am a murderer.
I am a martyr.
But one can't be both.