I left, bitchily telling said guy not to worry about it, and then I asked the cop behind my car how long I had to wait before I was sober enough to drive. He told me I had at least an hour, so I pathetically played a couple tunes on my ukulele before getting on Grindr to look for some weed. A nice large black man with poofy hair came to talk to me for half an hour downtown. He didn't have any weed but spent a significant amount of time looking for some. He invited me to come back with him to drink some wine, but he had to be at work at 8:30, and I felt bad for keeping him up so late (it was 2am at this point). Also my penis still has some inherent racism stemming from being raised by a bunch of bigots, so I wouldn't be able to get it up anyway, and I know that's what he's expecting. I would probably let him pity fuck me if I didn't have HPV, thanks to Tyler in the Middle Georgia College dorm in 2002. That was the last time I had a dick in my ass. Sad. Anyway, I told him I didn't hook up anymore because I felt gross since Michael, my ex that broke my ribs, gave me syphilis. That's at least part of the truth.
God, I wish my roommate would let me smoke cigarettes in my room. She smokes in hers, and I can smoke in the living room. But this room is for her daughters when they visit once every two years or so. They used to be my best friends, but they don't talk to me anymore. One lives in England now and is too posh or something, and the other one hates me since I seduced three guys she was fucking, basically. I miss them both.
My whole plan was to update my blog while Mazzy Star's So Tonight I Might See album (hence the title) plays, but I'm nicking (sic) like a bitch. Fuck it, I'll just pause it, I guess.
Okay, I'm back. I wish speech to text technology were at its peak, because even though I'm a ridiculously fast typist (around 130 wpm), I'm lazy as fuck. I just want to lie down, close my eyes, and babble on. Larkin said if I write a book, it should be stream of consciousness. I'm entirely too pedantic (yeah, I just spent almost 60 seconds trying to come up with the correct adjective, and I know pedantic isn't the best one, but it makes my point) to type out my thoughts without censoring myself.
Any-fucking-who, the reason this entry is subtitled "Veritas" is because shortly after my Grandma died in 1993, I got a dot matrix printer and started a newsletter called Veritas. I only made the header. I guess my life thus far has been the body. Truth... is that even possible anymore? I used to be a bit of a pathological liar--a trait I learned growing up with a father with PTSD. At this point, I've lied so much about some things that I seriously don't remember what the actual truth is sometimes.
Goddamnit my lungs hurt so bad. I need drugs. Bad.
This is my five string serenade, beneath the water we played. I always thought it said "beneath the watery grave", but Google just corrected me.
I like taking showers. If I had my own place, I'd probably take 10 a day. Here I take two usually, unless my roommate is asleep. My two first shower memories involve my dad (no, I wasn't molested, as far as I know, even though I've wondered myself) and the day my Grandma died. I probably spent two hours in there after my mama told me Grandma went to heaven to be with Jesus. Fuck, just typing that makes me cry still. It's funny--I've had so fucking many close friends die--even Randall, of all people--but nothing automatically brings tears to my eyes like my Grandma.
I hate my fucking brain. I try to hold on to as many memories as possible, but I keep losing so much. But I still remember some. I remember the way it felt to lay my head on her chest after she had her double mastectomy. She was wearing her dark blue cotton mu mu with baby blue trimming. We were laying on the couch in the den. I think Golden Girls was on TV. She was playing with my hair and humming church songs. I was upset because mama and daddy got in a fight again, and she threw her ring at him in the back yard. I ran across the field as fast as I could. My Grandma answered her yellow wall phone by the gas heater and told my mom that they needed to leave that baby alone.
Fried salmon patties. Homemade apple tarts formed with my great-grandmother Mama Stripling's ancient saucer. More church songs. There's a church in the valley by the wild wood. Goddamnit.
The day she wore two different shoes on the way to church. I was the first person to know something was wrong. That was around the same time she accidentally backed her car into the ditch. Then she lost her hair. She found a wig that looked a lot like what it was supposed to look like, but I could tell the difference.
The smell of her bathroom. Burning my hand on the old hot water heater that looked like a washing machine. Pink towels, pink tiles. Taylor Regional Hospital plastic tumbler--burgundy and grey. Watching food particles flow through the translucent straw as the skeleton that used to be Grandma tried to drink her dinner. Accidentally walking in on her while her hand was down her panties and not knowing what to do.
Pink coffin. Or was that Granny's? See, my memory is shot. Lots of flowers, though, definitely. Half the town was there. Sonny Watson was there--my famous cousin Congressman. I drew a picture of his house and tennis courts in 2nd grade, even though I had never been there. I don't even think he had tennis courts.
Still... falling... breathless and on again.
I love this song.
Enough crying.
Her name was Bennie Kate Young. I was named after her.
Okay, I lied. I just want to listen to this song and cry some. It's the only non-chemical relief I ever get.
---
So, I smoked half a cigarette, and I heard the Facebook message ding. It was my old friend Mikey. He's getting me in touch with a buddy today so I can get $20 worth of weed or pain pills or both. I feel immensely better already--well, numb instead of boohooing, at least. You know, my dad always told me that men don't cry. He'd take off his belt and threaten to give me something to cry about. He said a lot of dumb shit, though. He also said men don't eat quiche. I fucking love quiche. Kate, remember that crab quiche I made at your parents' house? So good.
Anyway, I was actually considering making this public, but I don't want anyone to get into trouble. This is why I'll never be able to write my book. Maybe I can get someone to edit it for me and change all the names. I guess I could do it myself, but I'm sure people could still figure out who a lot of the characters are based on context. Oh well. Holy shit, I have so much fucking shit I need to write about. I just need to get it out of my head. It has literally made me fucking insane--well, that and the syphilis and possible schizophrenia, at least.
Two more minutes until the album is over. My stomach needs food. The nice waitress at the Waffle House gave me a waffle they accidentally cooked for free tonight. It's in the refrigerator, but I don't really feel like getting out of bed, and I know I'll regret eating it now after I wake up. That always happens. Speaking of waking up, I wonder if I should set my alarm. I don't want to miss getting my medicine. Yes, medicine--more medicinal than recreational, at least. Maybe the weed will help me be more creative, though. I haven't written a song that I like in months.
Okay, the album is over. Maybe I'll make this a regular thing. We'll see (doubtful).
1 comment:
I remember the quiche!
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