could do which is probably a bad sign but i do miss you.
I told him never to contact me again in any form.
Then there was a moment’s pause as I thought about what I had done. Never again in any form. I wasn’t just flushing one baggie of the drug; I was extinguishing it from my existence.
I said: lol sorry it had to end like this
I said: say goodbye to me please lol
I don’t know why I kept saying lol. I was crying.
He said: I’m dead now forever you can block me
He said: I thought I was better than drink idiocy but turns out I’m a piece of shit. oh fuck it shut up myself. bye
It was the least satisfying ending ever. Now I want to contact him and be like, Just one more thing! I want to give it the perfect ending. But there will never be a perfect ending. The perfect ending is a romantic ending and thus is not an ending. The perfect ending will only feed the compulsion. So I am keeping the imperfect ending and pretending it is perfect.
But now I am sick again. I have holes in my brain where I want to hide from life. The holes are filled with voices that tell me we were nirvana, over and over. The voices seem like truth to me, because I am an addict and I want being high to be the truth. I don’t know if I will ever fill the holes. But I am trying really hard not to enter them again.
Hello 911, I Can’t Stop Time
I CAN’T STOP TIME AND Los Angeles knows this. Los Angeles wants me frozen.
My spirit doesn’t want me frozen. My spirit is the kind of spirit that doesn’t want me to hurt myself for physical beauty, but my spirit is not an interventionist spirit unless I get quiet enough to listen to it. To be honest, I don’t really want to listen to my spirt. My spirit got me into this mess of becoming human in the first place. I don’t want to be human. I don’t want to age or die. What I want is to be impervious to all of that. And if I can’t defeat time and death, then let me at least be impervious to what other people think of me. I want to be beyond reproach. Let me at least try.
The dermatologist who will relieve me of what other people think looks like a fetus. Two months ago, when I first moved to LA, I checked in with this dermatologist, because I needed a chinzit point person. Chinzits have always been a struggle and it’s best to be prepared. After re-upping some antibiotics for my chinzits, the fetus pointed out all of the sun damage on my face, particularly three lines across my forehead. He said that he could “fix those right up” with Botox.
Truth be told, the lines had bothered me for a few years but I’d never considered Botox. I didn’t know anyone (or didn’t think I knew anyone) who used Botox. When the fetus presented me with the Botox option I was like, No fucking way. I did think it was funny, however, that within one week of living in LA I was already recommended Botox.
What has changed in the two months between his recommendation and now? What made me choose to inject botulinum toxin into my face today was two months of sitting with the lines, knowing that there was a solution if I wanted it. The solution made the lines more visible. It kept speaking to me. It said: Why suffer? It said: Fool them. It said: Fool yourself. I almost felt as though I were being “bad” or “foolish” or “wrong” for not doing all I could to stay young-looking. I don’t think this is just the American beauty industry talking. I think this is me and my fear of judgment, time, and death. Actually, maybe it is just the American beauty industry talking. Fine, then. It’s loud as fuck.
The fetus takes all kinds of pictures of my face with his iPhone, asking me to smile and look grim and look sad. When we both discover that I can’t properly frown, he says, That’s probably a good thing. I don’t tell him that the reason why I can’t frown in front of another person is because I am overly concerned with what others think of me, and this hyperconcern has likely conditioned my face to only