feel me

I always sit at the keyboard for a while before I start hacking away at the stupid little keys. Why? I don’t know, maybe I have nothing to say when I feel like I have everything to say.

The last few days I have slacked off on my “responsibilities”. I called into work three times and missed class once. I haven’t been doing homework though I have been drinking and doing drugs. I finished my zine and I had one of the best nights I’ve ever had ever ever in life or anything similar to life. like death. which I guess isn’t similar but rather opposite. this isn’t important.

amber came down. she drank a lot. as did I. and everyone. we saw a shitty movie and talked about things. we drank more. maybe I am writing this for amber but mostly I think I’m writing it cause I want to write it and this is the place I do that. write.

I am scared to be amber. though I would posess this way with words and wit and genius and all of that, living as her would frighten me. I don’t like to assume, to break people down and rattle off lameass offbase theories, especially when I know they’ll read it. but. it’s my understanding that amber simply uses another part of the brain, different from the rest of us. amber is sad. amber is manic. amber is fucking cool and smart and funny. amber crys when I don’t see it coming and amber laughs to keep from crying. and I don’t see that coming either. amber makes great art. amber has extreme highs and lows, social anxiety, visions, voices- depression. ongoing, intense, obvious depression. amber could be a case study. amber should be medicated. but she feels it will sacrafice her art, her humanity. yet- without people, connections, healthy human relationships and happiness to inspire it- you can’t create good art. and maybe medication could control some of the anxiety and make it a lot easier to find those things. or maybe I don’t know what the fuck I’m talking about. I guess I’d just like to see her happy. I’d like to see her create the life she wants.

despite this and all that, it was good to see her and know her. it was good to hear what she thinks and how she reacts. to drink and talk shit and laugh and remember stuff. I’m glad she liked our friends, I really like them too.

this morning I woke up. late. I looked in the mirror and saw my reflection washed out. tired, drugged, pale. I’m not a coke head, a hooker, a cancer patient, but right then I sure did look like one.

Last night we set up the house accordingly. We lit a few candles and covered the lamps with sheets. We filled a bucket with ice and bottles of water and set it on the end table near the couch. We placed a bowl of lolly pops and pacifiers and vick’s nasal spray on the coffee table. Jane placed six ecstacy pills around a CD like a tray, and we each took one.

a half hour later all the lights had gone out except for the illuminating “dos equis” beer sign atop the minifridge.

for me, ecstacy comes in stages. The first stage makes my legs tingle and my mough grow dry. I have a body high I don’t truly feel until I stand and I like the sounds of the music. In the next stage, I want to walk around, move about the room, I get cold and thirsty. I start to feel happy and real fucking relaxed. At my peak, I fucking love everything. I want to talk to everyone and tell them things and ask them questions and tell them how cool I think they are. I get really, really, really in love with the girlfriend and want to touch her everywhere. when we make out it’s like our mouths are without bodies and her lips know exactly what mine are going to do. Jennie talks about her eating disorder, Amber talks about her depression, Breezy talks about the first time she got with a chick at 13, and we all talk about art and people and life and right now.

For me, the come down is nice. I have a body high for a good two hours after I’m done rolling and I still like the sensation of touch and sound. We smoke pot, a lot of pot, and my body feels like it’s melting. I’m quiet, but it’s not because I don’t have things to say. No one leaves until everyone is done and then we give hugs. cause we’re all still into touching. The girlfriend and I take a shower together and have the most out of this world sex. In the morning, my brain feels fogged over. My thought process is wobbley and crooked and I am so so so fucking tired.

I guess I’m compromising my brain, handing it over to the drugs without question because I am a whore for ecstacy. But when I was at my peak- I kept thinking about my shitty art and my low expectations and how maybe my art is not that shitty and my expectations shouldnt be that low. I kept thinking that grooming school is menial and school is unimportant and all I need is my art and my friends and my music and my age to hold me afloat. which is immature I know, but it feels good.