Once I found a trove of old writing…

by cuntycouture

Oh the memories:

Or…breaking up during break-up…

Staring out at the blue tinted sky, inhaling one last drag of a menthol cigarette, kicking the new six inches of snow, enjoying the later sunshine,  riding in cabs, buying new clothes, listening to French music, waking up early, using music as therapy, watching VHS tapes, making new friends, going to new bars, eating sushi, eating once a day, taking up smoking again, squatting in unfamiliar homes, being productive, making plans, being overwhelmed by the kindness of strangers, losing weight, being lonely, trying to enjoy alone time, not being heartbroken, not being able to concentrate, sleeping, dancing, going out, rocking out, making out, walking, raven watching, drinking too much, having a crush, love sick, love lorn, watching films, figuring things out, watching out for volcanoes, trying to write, searching for internet, not wanting to cook, working hard, drowning in work, being confused, being torn, being happy, getting high, debauchery, fun, making mistakes, trying to correct mistakes, feeling the love, singing, taking cold showers, debating, deleting pictures of the ex, relenting, doing laundry at the old apartment, feeling different, wanting to escape, wanting to remain, wanting to be a better person, being too nice, being indecisive, missing old friends, missing family, trying to separate from the past, trying to find a new future, meeting the right people, maybe meeting the right person at the wrong time, not rushing in, trying to forget what being in love used to feel like, wondering if it will feel better next time around, quitting smoking, not trying to think, looking for distractions,  replacing sadness with happiness, waking up from the winter’s coma…all in the span of two weeks. -Circa 2009


So, the world was ending in 2012.
Fuck it. She was going to turn 30 that year anyway and that was three years longer than she predicted.
There was a certain ominous feeling in the pit of her stomach the last couple of months.
Not to be confused with the sharp pains she was feeling right now while drinking a fresh can of MGD and gobbling 3 Tylenol-3’s to ease what she could only guess is her appendix.
Ominous is the closest word she could come to it. Between death and disaster, it was the only thing to describe a feeling that mirrored the events of the past couple of months so closely.
After close and fevered introspection and analyzing, she decided the best way to deal with it was apathy. Life was too good to worry about the shit-parts anyway.
Death was a reoccurring bastard thought that nagged at the back of her brain.
A couple of fizzled acquaintances, gone. While their real friends were left to pick up the pieces and hold the vigils and fight like children.
And all of a sudden everyone started thinking about their own alcoholism and damned guilty souls.
Was it so funny to watch him drink a fifth a night? Or what about when it wasn’t funny anymore? The years everyone skirted around the issue and eventually stopped taking his phone calls?
That was around the time his eyes started turning yellow and his ankles started to swell.
Soon followed by phone calls saying he washed up somewhere in Maui.
Maybe it’s trying to discuss mortality to a 25-year-old. What the fuck did they know about it anyway?  They were all kids who were five drinks behind him or family so out of touch with his alternate reality.  The only thing they ever had to say no to was dessert.
Every car crash has a back-story.  Surivors.  Trubadors to pass names along, to sing of your praises, make you a martyr, argue over who was mourning more.
Upon first hearing about her ex dealer she could only recall one real conversation they shared…
She looked up from her drink at a house party full of people she did not know, in a suburb she had never been, in a winter’s depression she didn’t know she’d be able to get out of.
He looked at her and smiled.
Eyes half-open, tongue swollen, heart beating. She stumbled, “Why is it…that life comes so easy to you?”
He never answered, just laughed softly and let her back inside.
Soon after she stopped letting herself remember this, her fish died.
Not to be confused with the two fish she killed when a friend’s filter broke causing her to drain the 60 gallon tank bucket by bucket.
That was a night she slept uneasy. 
Thinking the same theme.
Death by ignorance.
The next morning she drowsily checked her mail and saw that the Pakistani Democratic candidate was assassinated.
And all of a sudden the fish didn’t seem so important. And she didn’t feel so important. And car crashes didn’t feel so important.
But it didn’t stop her heart from sinking when she sat in her dentist waiting room the weekend after.
The moment she looked up from a courtesy copy of Newsweek, to find herself staring at Dr. Poroto’s goldfish tank.
And when the good doctor gave her the prescription for Vicodin, she snatched it out of his hand and thought this is going to be a good couple of days, and it was.
Not that the two months were filled with such morose undertones, the real questions raised were issues of mortality in all instances. 
Not to be confused with morality, which was exactly the philosophical debate she struggled with before all this death business began.-Circa 2008
So she took the hit of acid and waited,
In between there were conversations that were smudged out by whiskey,
Out of cigarettes instead of braving the cold.
She remembers saying “Dean Moriarty was born in Salt Lake City”.
The acid was stale and never really started,
And it would’ve been the first time since the great Spiderman wave of 2001.
Crippling even more so than the hangover she had promised,
So she wouldn’t have to be in to work in the morning.-Circa 2005?
Am, is, are, was, be, being, been
I have a firm grasp of the english language.
I’m lying.
Sometimes I make words up, and sometimes I use words I vaguely know the meaning of.
Okay.  I have a semi-firm grasp of the english language.  Enough to know that I should’ve capatilized english.  WTF, dude.
And I really have no one else to blame, not even my public schooling.  Sometimes I can’t play Mad Libs because I’ve forgotten basic fundamentals of English that were repeatedly taught from second to twelfth grade.
I sometimes forget what an adverb is.
My eleven year old cousin knows what an adverb is, without the refresher.
I can pin point the problem.  One example of many as to why I am not nearly as smart as I should be.  Drugs included.
I can flash-back to Mrs. Ortega’s classroom my Senior year and visualize her telling me, for the last time, what an adverb is.
But I’m not paying attention to her words.  I’m paying attention to Mrs. Ortega.
She was in her early thirties and had braces.  She was also frail and white.  Her hair was short, and what I considered, mousy.
She was not a natural Ortega.
She was a former Mormon missionary who fell in love with Mr. Ortega in Mexico.
While her personality goes against this, I’d like to think she couldn’t resist the raw Latin fire of senor Ortega, and finally let her hair out of her tight ponytail and succumb to the Fuego.  It is the stuff that romance novels are made of.
Yes, braces on an adult is always depressing.  You can tell there is a haunting kind of humiliation in it.
Aside from Mrs. Ortega, I once had a ball-busting female boss who had braces.
This woman had married into the family business and had a sense of false superiority about her.  Unfortunately it’s difficult for me to take a fifty year old woman with braces seriously.  Yes, her right wing shook hands with the current President’s right wing on his visit to this middle-of-nowhere town in a middle-of-nowhere red state, but when I see the pictures I can only imagine him thinking, “Damn, this bitch has got some braces on.”
Sure, she promised me lucrative networking opportunities to “high profile” travel writers, if you consider the Black Hills tourism division high profile, to prove her power.
But like all things said in passing and by someone who didn’t really mean it, it never happened.
Last conversation we had, she’d seen my newest and most visible tattoo and snarled, “Now, how in the world are you planning on getting a decent job with that thing?”
Perhaps I should’ve asked, how did you become the first lady of tourist traps with your crazy old lady Afro and crooked teeth?  But I didn’t.
But Mrs. Ortega, although uptight, wasn’t as deserving of her student’s mocking.  What else can you do but be a bitch sometimes?  She had classrooms of students that looked older than her.  She had friggin’ braces.  And unlike my old boss, she probably worked really hard for everything she has.  Including forgoing the humiliation of being an adolescent with braces, to get herself through school so she could finally afford to get her fangs fixed and live with the humiliation of being an adult with braces.  Who was I to player hate?  Even if I did, especially those times she kicked me out into the hallway for being too loud or giving me shitty grades on my reports, I shouldn’t have.
Besides, when I wasn’t paying attention to Mrs. Ortega’s shortcomings, I was sleeping.
She was only trying to keep me from being a feral child, grunting my requests and crying because no one could understand my garbled jungle speak. -Circa 2007
Cowboys vs Astronauts
I’ve been thinking a lot about Peter Gabriel.  It’s an odd thing to keep occupying my mind.  I also keep having thoughts of episodes of Garfield and Friends, only it expands into real time, then the guy with the long, red facial hair will be describing Lorenzo Music as his personal childhood hero.  I hold books about hunting, about orchids, about personal finance.  Conjure maps in my mind, shelves that segregate genera fiction and warrior cats.  Who knew that Christian Fiction needed it’s own section, and why was I unaware that this subcategory existed?  In the meantime I write novels in my mind.  They sound about like this.  Fragmented.  I don’t put much faith in metaphysics.  I wonder what strange form of adult ADD I’ve developed over time at fault of younger television viewing and years of abusing mind altering substances.  Is it possible to get a diagnosis now?  They should really legalize medical marijuana in Alaska.  New fangled technology keeps me up a night, that and the strange Japanese music Will insists on playing while we sleep.  Scrabble.  I’m 50 points away from genius status, and only 28 points behind Will.  On the television there are advertisements for prepackaged, frozen salmon burritos.  Also, a pedophile of mattress salesmen on channel 13.  I want to hug a polar bear, but I can’t imagine it being as cuddly as I imagined.  Why are these extreme environments only igniting my passion for brutal metal?  I think I have a pizza addiction.  I have a million books I need to read and not enough of a lifetime to do it.  I enjoy having Hysteria by Def Leppard stuck in my head.  My nostrils flare more than anyone’s I’ve ever known.
So, I’ve had the seed planted, who wants to move with me to New Zeland in two years?-Circa 2008
Jaguars have existential crisis -Circa 2007

 There was the feeling of decay.
Like something expired.
And all the things that were once known as facts where now downgraded to useless knowledge.
Somewhere between kicking rocks into the unforgiving sea and the storm clouds that gathered the wind.
And wondering how you could look at someone.
And they would never look the same.
There was never time to think.
Nothing ever processed and so nothing was ever really resolved.
Just pushed back.
Everything just got pushed back and ignored.
And happiness could be bought at a corner store.
For moments you could forget.
And forgetting was the only thing palatable.
The only thing conceivable.
The only thing safe.
Reality was the burden.
Thoughts were negative.
Introspection only leads to madness.
Silencing screams.  Silencing future.  Silencing responsibility.
This was the only thing that made sense.
Choosing the path of least resistance.
On the way stumbling upon greater things.
All this beauty.
Everything good.
Contrasting with the unfair.
Polarizing the world.
Grasping for equilibrium.
Slaves to ourselves.
To comfort.
The joy.  The dread.
It all just manifests itself with impossibility.
And it just leaves me annoyed.-Circa 2006 emo