Something I wrote a few years ago about my mid-twenties:
Since I couldn’t be fixed, I wanted to be dead. Every day was misery: wake up, smoke a joint, go to work at the newspaper I’d conned into hiring me. Smoke another joint at lunch, under a leaking scaffold on a side street; get back to answering phones and entering data. Deflect a phone call from my mother, checking in about lunch that weekend; wait for a phone call from my boyfriend, to no avail. Go home, feed the cats, smoke another joint. Call the boyfriend. Have him blow me off. Try to write a poem. Fail. Suck my thumb. Hit myself. Cry. Have some dinner. Smoke another joint, and another, until I fall asleep. Dream about being the victim of a violent crime. Wake up and do it again.
I'm so glad you grew out of that!
Posted by: Stana | Feb 11, 2011 at 09:04 AM
Wheee!!!
Posted by: Jennifer | Feb 14, 2011 at 05:38 PM
Further to Stana's point... How did you grow out of that? At 47, fucking embarrassing.
Posted by: Kirsten | Feb 19, 2011 at 10:13 AM
I meant me... I'm 47 and embarrassing.
Posted by: Kirsten | Feb 19, 2011 at 11:20 PM
THERAPY. Twice a week, going on sixteen years. Jesus Christ, my shrink saved my life.
Posted by: Janice | Feb 20, 2011 at 01:03 AM