1:52 pm 

Tuesday?

26 May 2002: the birth of a villain

I’m just trying to guess what they must’ve put out in the newspaper when i was born. Or is that only for when you die? Does suicide count? 

There must be a handful of maniacs who script their own obituary. I wouldn’t bet against me being one.

Last night, so wrong and so delicious, oh, god. A secret i’ll take to the grave.

Fuck it, i’ll just tell you, snitch on myself. My own looping cycles of melodramatic behaviour. I am a very bad person, but mostly it’s just me and me in the scene, me skinning my arm with a skinny cigarette, me drowsy in the supermart comparing my tits to older, plumper women, real women, me writing myself into a darker shape instead of cracking my shell, just curling into myself, repeatedly until i am bones and dust instead of a nicer, cuter flesh, me holding a cold gun to my spinning head. 

Made love to a throbbing mound of deep red velvet cake. In my jamas, melancholy, allowing myself to cry slowly. And then i’d blow my nose and take a bite and blow my nose again.

****

Thinking of the crusty jewellery they recovered from titanic. The Amy bracelet. They uncrustified it and then it was beautiful. I imagine wearing it. I imagine a sober hand, broth of veins, pale and strong, underwater, running over the golden twists. Shying away from the skin of my wrists growing hotter by the second.

***

I can only have these strange romantic fantasies, faceless, mostly me alone with me but in a softer place, for thirty something seconds before i derail.

And then im thinking of starting a fight club and how this time it would be marla starting one instead of that schizophrenic bum. Marla would follow through.

****

“My strong personality” makes men uneasy. I remember my ex used to say something like that, actually i remember exactly but id rather not say it.

Fine, he said i act like i have big hairy balls.

It used to make me cry a little but now it sounds stupid, because in a way its like somebody saying, oh, you’re just so fucking cool and supernatural, it’s impossible to have earthly expectations from you.

But then, it hurts still, even when i admit it doesn’t, this is just the way it is, behind the scenes, we’ll never know, we’re just on the stage, not in total control. 

***

I’ve been drinking a little now and then, i think, friday, the day before that, then obviously, it was the weekend, a lonely one, only part choice. Kea called at midnight but i was slurring so we couldn’t really get our messages across and it got awkward really fast. How much have you had to drink, he asked, sounding like my nosy sister. 

Not even a little, i said, blurry. Just one, two.

One two what? 

I can’t answer that for organisational reasons.

One two what, girl? Pints? Shots?

I laughed, shaken by the echo of my own raspy static. 

And slowly, on the other end, a numb voice-

One two… bottles?

****