Wednesday, April 25, 2007

everything go fuzzy

Most days I want it all to end. Everything. Everyone. I want it all t go away. Far far away from here. And this city and all these assholes. I want my mind to shut off, everything go fuzzy. Black light black light blacklight. Like when I turn on the shower and stand there naked breathing in the warm air. I wanbt my life to be the mirror, everythng slowly going blurry. It happenes gradually but all at once, much like my demise.
I do not know why it is so hard for me to live a normal life. I can't go a day without doing drugs, or fucking some stranger in the bathroom of Marquee, of throwing a glass at someones face. im bored now.

Saturday, April 07, 2007


i want to die while being hugged.
really its all i want.

Tuesday, March 20, 2007


even Britney got her life back. What the fuck is my problem?

Friday, August 04, 2006

Summer 06', kill yourself

Everything is wrong and out of place. It's a mere 3 weeks before I'm supposed to go back to school. Yet, I'm not registered and as the days draw closer and closer it appears, I'm probably not going back to school. My Dad's still dead. And it doesn't get easier, and it doesn't heal and I don't think about it any less. In fact, it only hurts more and more. And where the fuck is God when I really need him. I've been waiting for 18 years. And I was a catholic school-girl, albeit a good one. I made my sacraments, and did my service, and donated the money, and did the hours. They say sinners are the closest to God, for real, thats a loose quote from the Holy Book itself. So, shouldn't me and him be like Lucy and Ethel?
I know, everyman is an island, and were all alone and blah blah blah. But I think I feel that so much more that anyone else around me. And everyday I get up and try to turn it around but I always fail.
I'm away from the city, and I've been the soberest I've been since the 7th grade, and I'm painting and staying out of trouble. But nothing ever works for me.
Noones there when you really need them and I only trust my brother. I feel like the whole world has gone and left me here.
I just can't get over the fact that my life wasn't supposed to turn out this way.

Saturday, May 06, 2006


One of my best friends just got home after living in North Carolina for a year. Yesterday we celbrated her return doing what all "hip" New Yorkers do on a Saturday: consume massive amounts of drugs, shoplift from those trendy stores on Spring Street, and have dinner at Tao. It still amazes me how easy it is to shoplift in Soho. And it seems the nicer and more expensive the stroe is, the easier it gets. Why is it that the stores where everything is $19.99 and under are always the oner with the big plastic tags that go off under the sensors and are impossible to remove? Thats a whole nother entry.
After our leisurely afternoon, we met up with a few other friends at Tao. As anyone who isn't living under a rock knows, Tao is one of those Manhattan places all about people wanting to see and be seen. As someone who has been there a dozen times, I know it is a place full of idiots. My friend and I arrive early, about 10pm, partly because we were bored, partly because the drinks we were having at Phebe's tasted like shit, but mostly because we just like observing the idiocy that goes on in this place. My friend Krisin goes to make a reservation as we go in and they say they'll have one at 10 and then give us one of those ringing pagers. The hostess didn't seem amuesed when I asked "what is this, t.g.i. Friday's?" At least I think I'm funny. The place was sardine can packed but we somehow managed to get seats. I sat back, stoned and slight drunk, eating wasabi peas. We got constant stares from older Sex and the City women. I used to hate these women but now I sort of pity them. If I was a 30 year old fashion buyer living in Murray Hill, I hadn't been laid in 9 months, and I was spending my Friday night with 3 other lound, fat assed men bashers, well, I would have a reason to be angry too. This anger often gets taken out on pretty underage girls. We didn't ask to have your 40 year old men drool over us, in fact most of us find it disgusting.
Annoyed by the constant stares, we moved to the other side of the lounge. Here I sat next to two people who were obviously on a first date. The guy consumed about 5 drinks in 30 minutes, while the woman stared off in the other direction fiddling with her $400 channel sunglasses. There were constant awakward silences and at one point as the guy was rubbing her leg, I actually heard him say "I haven't been with a woman in so long..ya know...months." Ease dropping on other peoples first dates is quite possibly one of my favorite activites.
As two of our guy friends showed up, we relocated to the bar, obviously. Some skeevy looking buisness man bought Kristin and I drinks and denied being married. Bald faced lie. He should have at least waited for the rink mark around his finger to fade. At around the same time, one of the cocktail waitress went up to my friend Aaron, who was sitting at the bar mind you and drinking a drink, and asked him for the third time in 20 minutes if he "needed something to drink."
A little later on I saw the blind-date man waiting outside the womans bathroom. I went to run up the stairs, my munchies had fully taking over my thought process by this point, and all I could see was shrimp tempura & pan-thai noodles. My blurry vision from drinking and my lack of coordination from all the pot I smoked backfired. I made it two steps before tripping UP the steps and losing my purple heel. The 1/2 of the blinddate disaster said to me "oops, looks like you lost a tire." Yes, verbatim. I couldn't come up with this sort of fucked up shit if I tried. He then proceede to pick up my shoe and PUT IT ON for me. Tip for guys trying to get laid: don't compare a chick to a car. After hearing my story, my friend Amy asked "was it like cinderella?" "Yea", I replied "if Cinderella was a low-cut shirt wearing alcoholic and Prince Charming was a creepy E-harmony user with a receeding hairline.
We were seated at that big table directly in front of the humongous buddha. Wonderful. Throughout the meal groups of tourists from Kentucky kept taking taking pictures of the monstrosity. I was seeing spots the entire meal. I had to try my hardest not to scream out this isn't Disneyland, bitches. Sit the fuck down and let me enjoy my four pieces of shrimp. After all, they're probably gonna cost me around 46 dollars. This is how pretentious the place is: if you ask for "just a glass of water" they will bring you mineral water and then charge you $7.50 for it. At one point, 3 tanorexic girls, decided to stage a photoshoot in front of the buddha. Seriously, they took about 50 photos before I even got a chance to order my 8th drink of that night. They were carbon cut-outs of eachother, all wearing those ratty looking denim mini skirts you find at Abercrombie and Fitch. Those destroyed denim ones. Who pays $120 for a skirt with a bunch of holes in it. Shit. Give me $20. I'll buy a $5 skirt from Canal Jeans and fuck it up 10 times better, in 5 minutes flat.
Some 40 year old sugar daddy came up to the girls and practically begged to take the pictures for them. He actually said "come on, work it for me girls." Classy. These chicks were all over him, right in the middle of my meal, like white on rice. They must have sensed he had money. My friends proceeded to talk shit about underage cocksuckers and the Investment Bankers who buy them Dior purses. That's what living in New York does to you: even while stoned, one had the ability and disposition to be angry, insulting and violent.

Friday, December 09, 2005

the first snowfall

The four of us met at 10 P.M. and started to do drugs immedietly. We spent the entire night sitting on that floor, passing around mirrors. But it was all irrelevant until at 6:30 AM when we realized we had somehow gone through an entire carton of cigarettes. I put on a pair of sweatpants and a pair of slippers and decided to make the trip. It was snowing heavily, at least an inch had to be on the ground. When I got back to the apartment my shoes were completely soaked, the front of my pants wet and cold, snow covering the entirety of my head, and falling down in between each eyelash. But I didn't care because for those two blocks everything was in its right place, including me. And I was reminded just how much I love New York. And for a moment I forgot my friends and the drugs I was consumed with 10 minutes prior. All I could think was, I have to write this down, while the moment is still here.

We spend all night doing coke to try and feel alive then an unexpected snow storm outside is what really does the trick. I think they call it irony?

Wednesday, December 07, 2005

10 is the Loneliest Number

It’s been seventeen months since I misplaced my virginity, and somehow, between then and now, I’ve managed to bed nine more people.

The other night I made my mental list, rattling off the names in chronological order of the men and women with whom I’ve rolled in the hay. And there it was: ten. A person, a place, and a bed for each finger on my tiny little hands. How terribly insignificant. Initially I assumed there was a miscalculation, and proceeded to go over the names in my head a few times more, absolutely certain that I could not have really been with that many people. But each time I counted, the same result came out. Ten.

How has this happened? Where have all these random genital couplings found the time to squeeze into my daily schedule? Haven’t I been going to college? Haven’t I been a good, a very, very good student? I tried to figure out how I, of all people, managed to turn into such a dripping slut. I’ve always been a reserved person. I’m quite possibly the least aggressive girl I know when it comes to men. Well, booze helped. But also time.

Granted, I began with a bumpy start. My first nauseatingly awkward experience was followed by several other nauseatingly awkward experiences. I had always assumed I was a confident, comfortable, sexually aware young woman with over eighty-eight hours of sex education training under my belt and an extensive knowledge of intimate matters. However, when push came to shove and I found myself pinned spread-eagle under some huge, sweaty mastodon of a partner, I realized that though I may be well versed in the symptoms and treatments of various STDs, I knew nothing about creating even the semblance of an enjoyable romp.

That, and I was mortified by penises. Due to some rather unsavory events earlier in my life, I had unconsciously begun to equate the male reproductive organ with dominance, pain, humiliation and filth. (Now, of course, dominance, pain, humiliation and filth are the ingredients for a fun Saturday night, but that comes later.) So during the first few times I ventured under the sheets with a member of the opposite sex, I could not bring myself to so much as glance at their naughty bits without feeling a surge of anxiety. This, needless to say, put a bit of a damper on the evening.

I managed to work my way through two “relationships” without ever giving a blow job. And it wasn’t that I didn’t want to please these unfortunate creatures who so unwisely chose to spend their time with me. It was just that I couldn’t. I had only the best intentions. Down I’d go, kissing, kissing, kissing from neck to chest, to navel to the blindingly arousing stripe of skin right beneath the elastic waistband of their underwear until...nothing. The poor boys would lift their hips, encouraging me to pull down their drawers and continue my quest, but instead I would fly back to the top of the bed and smash their faces against mine -- hoping that if I kissed them hard enough that giant, throbbing, pointing finger of accusation in their shorts would disappear.

Drugs helped. A few months later, after one of the aforementioned males dumped me “for some unknown reason”, I got myself a fuckbuddy. Well, two, actually. One fuckbuddy was a buddy with the other fuckbuddy and the two buddies made the democratic decision to both fuck me and not let some sexually inadequate teenager come between their friendship. So we had a threesome. I, of course, was delighted. They were both clean, respectable, nice young men, the type my mother would be happy for me to invite home for dinner. Together we went to sex shops and purchased my first vibrator, went back to bed and watched German porn, listened to New Wave music and swallowed large amounts of painkillers with gulps of gas station wine. It is to these boys I credit with my discovery of real, fantastic sex. Not only did I learn all the ways and places I could derive pleasure, but also how to return the favor.

My first blow job was as close to a religious experience as anything in my atheist-since-birth existence. Maybe it was the drugs, maybe it was wine, maybe it was the sheet-twisting, sob-inducing, mother-awakening orgasm I’d just recovered from, but whatever it was, it represented for me the first time I ever felt totally in control of myself and my sexuality, as if by submitting myself to someone else I was able to realize this huge turbine of power I never knew I had. Since childhood, the men in my life had been unabashedly violent characters who could force their control on me at any moment. Now though, through the acceptance of this odd little act, I learned that I could control them, too.

And then there were more drugs.

In a cruel cosmic joke by the gods of psychopharmecuticals, only weeks after I’d reached the brink of sexual nirvana, I was put on a high dose of a new antidepressant that had proven to reach in and pull nutcases out of the depths of depression by their asses, but was notorious for not just decreasing patients’ sex drive, but draw-and-quartering it, hacking its entrails with a dull axe and throwing the remains into a fire. Before Escitalopram I masturbated, even at my lowest points, two or three times a day, bringing myself to a lonesome little orgasms while watching “Nightline” or talking to distant relatives on the phone. After the meds, though, it was like everything below my navel had been amputated and my once-favorite anatomical region was left a ghost town.

As odd as it felt to be so utterly sexless for the first time since puberty certainly was odd, but a world devoid of intercourse proved to be, if even for a little while, really, really enlightening. The doctors were right, the pills worked phenomenally. In a matter of weeks, I was happier than I’d been in years, able to enjoy people, places, and activities once unfathomable. Birds chirped, strangers smiled. The sun came out.

I moved back to New York City and began my new life. I flourished academically: making the best grades ever, completing assignments well before they were due, choosing the most challenging course load available. Astonishingly, without masturbation and fueling my obsession with sex, there was so much time in the day! Time to do things I really enjoyed, like get shitfaced in a bar and go home with a Danish guy from some band I saw on MTV2.

Enter numbers 5 through 10.

How did this happen? Somehow, my complete lack of sexual appetite has become the ultimate aphrodisiac within the realm of self-obsessed, Manhattanite hipsterdom. Apparently, the less you show you want someone, the more irresistible you become. So now that my ladyparts are dead and gone, I’m having to beat guys off with a stick. What a revelation! What a discovery! All my life I’ve been this awkward, bookish, unattractive waif until, with the assistance of my favorite little pill, men swarm around me like flies. Huzzah! ...Too bad I have no desire to do anything with them.

Of course, I still sleep with them. The boys and girls are pretty and soft. Even if the volume on my clitoris has been turned down to nil, I still love the feel of smooth sheets against naked skin and naked skin against naked skin and naked skin against my mouth and mouths against my mouth and all the delicious accouterments that accompany the still thoroughly unappetizing main course. No matter how great the beauty or talent of various people I’ve been with, there are still times when I find myself listing off the assignments I need to complete before my next class period. Sex as a process will never fail to amaze me. Sex as an act, on the other hand, has become yawn-inducing.

Lately, though, there have been improvements. I’ve taken it upon myself to, well, take it upon myself more often. Now, even though the once multiple daily orgasms have stretched to few and far between, I do feel as though I am getting back into -- Jesus Christ the puns! -- touch. While the initial euphoria of my mental state has slowly worn off and I’ve begun to dip back into the soulless vacuum of reality, tiny fragments of my former self have started to peek over the surface.

Recently, I’ve even started to feel horny again, a sensation strangely alien after it’s been absent for long stretches of time. One morning, not too long ago, I awoke to a kind of strange, buzzing hollowness in my belly and had to take a considerable amount of time and internal investigation before I realized what exactly it was that my body wanted. So my life balances upon a fulcrum, one side weighed by psychological stability and the other weighed by my libido. It is a case of either or, but never both in healthy moderation. Between happiness and great sex sits me on the breaking point, grasping for both and attaining neither.

And then there was 10. Some were one night stands, some just never called back. Some were friendly, noncommittal fucks. Some were leisurely midday sessions with people I liked to look at and touch and talk to. A few had the potential to break my heart, but I’ve gotten better about that. One was absolutely horrible, but even then it was never awkward afterward. In a little over a year I have learned more about myself and about the basic, primal interactions between humans than ever before.

Of course there are taboos, and social customs, and stigmas and etiquette, but all of that is irrelevant when two (or three) people have made themselves temporarily vulnerable to one another. Sex is one thing, love is another. I don’t think I’ve yet to be in a situation where the two have met amicably, but that is probably a long way off and I’ve never been a fan of waiting. Right now, I’m in love with being “in like”. I like people and I like all the things their bodies do. Before I ever slept with my first man, I was spent hours in sex ed learning how to put on condoms and avoid the clap. I thought I knew sex, but I had no idea how lovely and painful and funny and sad and messy and absolutely mindboggilingly complex it can be. I’ve made mistakes and, slowly but surely, I’m beginning to learn.

Despite it all, I regret nothing.