I don't know what to think...

First of all, I forgot to tell you all that yesterday was VJ's Birthday.
VJ-- I don't know if you still read this, but if you do, HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!!

******************

Yikes.

I don't know what to think.

A little while ago, I reunited with a friend of mine that I hadn't seen in about 10 years. (I knew her in high school, but even then, we weren't very close). We spoke on the phone a few times in recent weeks, and she seems to be doing fine. She's a talented woman working in the arts, has a boyfriend she loves, and generally has her shit together.

Today, during my "in-between-teaching" internet procrastination, I came across her blog. What I found-- what she wrote-- is really bothering me.

As none of you know her, here is what she wrote:

*******************
I fuckin hate this blog shit.

I read what i write and realize it's nothing but sickness.

Word vomit puked up by my fingers to splash all over the screen violently. And it's fuckin addictive, contagious. Others read it, like it, hate, perplexed by it or my fucked up spelling or lack of proper grammer and what not....spreading this disease of horrible poetry, or writing, or just a shit load of run on sentences.

I never claimed to be good, infact, I will be the very first to stand up in a crowded room and scream out "I am fuckin worthless and my fingers should be hacked off"

Yet here i go again.....addictive. I know it's shit....urine.....pissed out just to get rid of the vileness and away from me. Its sap. its crap. darkness, blah....cold, blah...so sad...oh fuckin shut the fuck up.

I type now....i type because my fingers are accustomed to the motions of clicking on keys and have been craving this since my keyboard committed suicide.

The pizzaria i sit in smells of garlic and rain...and i only have 30 minutes left on this public computer. Im infecting it. I'm wipping my germs of worthless prose all over it. Perhaps the next person who sits here will write in there stupid ass livejournal about some crisis in thier lives that all the rest of us not willingly, need to be exposed to.

Here are the sick words....more fuckin words just arranged letters that make no sense to anyone, not even I, and i see them as they appear on the screen.

But it's like a dream, a weird sort of trip in my head beyond haze and fog where i can actualy be creative and not give a shit.

So what i draw, i sing, i make costumes made of glass and metal....nothign is greatness. Mediocrity , and i accept that as i accept my place and things that can not be changed. I'm better than those that can't, but in my opinion, i fuckin suck. and thats ok. A couple of chords on a guitar, a few songs spilled out and scattered poetry a few think is "fabulous"....greeeeaaat.

I wanna be fucked. I wann be pressed against a wall, my hips slammed against the plaster as my man takes me as i want him too. To take advantage of what i offer and yet fuck me like he wants to fuck ME, and not just stick his dick in something. I wanna be ravaged and wanted and emptied of this sickness that coarses through my viens and makes me want to stick my finger down my throat. If i could i would slit my wrists and drain the words out with my blood....sit in the tub and watch them swirl with the dirty water, and be dilluted into pink suds to wash away. But alas,,,,i'm too much of a pussy to do it. and thats ok too. we can't all be strong enough for such actions.

the doctor told me the other day i have an unusualy lareg heart as he peered over my chest xray. huh....and here i thought it was shriveled and decaying...rotting in my chest and making me weeze. sometimes things are just too fuck strange to even ponder. I'd give up, but fuck, then what would i do to pass the time?

There are only so many documentaries i can watch on discovery, only so many times i can rewatch that really hot episode of Rome. I feel like i should just walk out into the rain and dissapear, like so many think i would...witches are allergic to water so i am told.

21 minutes left....how much more can i cram. I dont want to go back to my apartment. I dont want to stare at the winged goddess i drew on my wall any more. She mocks me now....she sees what i do, and she knows I am pathetcic. If she could, she woud fly away.

Ahhh, I've coughed up again. gagged....thrown up more words of sap quessiness...aren't you surprised? no... doubtful. always fuckin doubtful.I am vulgar. I am a wretched woman....and thats ok. its all fuckin ok. thats what i keep telling myself....it's ok.

***********************

I'm upset for a few reasons. (The least of which are grammar and spelling, but trying to read stuff like that hurts my brain). First and foremost, I suffered from depression for a while and I used to romanticize it all of the time. Reading her writing reminded me, a lot, of what my brain used to be like. I haven't thought in those terms in a very long time and I haven't thought about thinking in those terms in a very long time. But being let inside of someone else's personal narrative like that has reminded me of my former self and unnerved me. I like to think that I "grew out of" my once beloved "adolescent morbidity." Yet, here is my friend at 27 years old, speaking in a voice that scares me.

On top of that, I feel like a voyeur for having found this. I feel like I did something wrong. Would she want me to read it? Am I going to look at her differently the next time I see her?

All I know is that right now, I feel very uncomfortable.

And I don't know what to think.

Anyway, I'll give you guys a more complete update later. But as for last night, basically-- the concert was incredible; B and I had a great evening; I actually got more than five hours of sleep last night; and Narc texted me at 11:30 that he was "at B&B" (or Bar and Books in the West Village, for those of you not in "the know").

I know you're probably all sick of my Narc-obsessing, but then again, this is my blog, so I reserve the right to obsess as I please.

I wrote back to him:
Have fun! I was at an amazing concert tonight, but in bed falling asleep now. Tomorrow is my long day again. Talk to you tomorrow night?

And he wrote back: K.

Weird. Maybe Mystic is right, and I'm on the Titanic. But whatever... There's meaning there for me.

Later...

-h

So... Total Narc contact for the week:

Thurs, 11/3- he texts me

Fri, 11/4- I stayed over there

Sat, 11/5- He called me that night

Sun, 11/6- We spoke on the phone

Mon, 11/7- I texted him (with no reply)

Tues, 11/8- I stayed over there

Wed, 11/9- he texted me to invite me out.

EVERY DAY??? WTF???