Letters from Limbo

Soon i’m writing a eulogy for you in my class

Dear Grandma,

I looked up your name to see what it means and baby names dot com was just as vague as everyone else is when I ask about you.  “Little girl” that’s what your name means, but that tells me so little.

My dad says you liked horses, you were a tomboy and once he told me a story about you riding on the back of my grandpa’s motorcycle when he decided to race someone and he revved so hard the end of the bike came off the ground and you just stepped off of it nonchalantly without him having to say a word to you or cater to your femininity.  Pardon my French, but I bet you were a bad ass chick.

I miss you, and I never met you.

I get told that I look like you sometimes but the only pictures I’ve seen of you are when you were no older than 12 or 13.  That’s one other thing I know about you, you didn’t like getting your picture taken.  Plus by the time you were 19 or so you were so swallowed up in drugs that no one wanted to take your picture anymore.

You were gone long before I was born.  I have your homicidal boyfriend who doled out drugs to you, convinced you to leave my grandpa, and abused my dad, aunt, and uncle in ways I can’t even imagine to thank for that.  I don’t think even my dad admits everything that happened; he sure as hell barely ever talks about it.  My mom told me how you died when I was about 9 or 10 and wanted to know where my nice grandma was.  In my mind you’ll always be that what if grandma. What if you had fought your addiction? What if you were alive? What if I had grown up with a grandma that wasn’t completely fucking insane and abusive?  What if I followed your path, would I be left untalked about too?  I always feel so alone and ignored by my family, I wonder if that’s because I’m so much like you… or if it’s just that the people who can’t repress are ignored by my dad’s side.   On the other side… my mom’s side, emotions are a tool to control people with.

There’s a hole there in my life.  Maybe it sounds silly because people talk about there being a hole when they never knew their mother or father.  But my mother is usually swallowed in depression and never has the energy to go and do anything self destructive, she self destructs by inaction.  My father doesn’t let himself feel emotions and he treats compassion and passion as weaknesses.  I always felt like maybe there was something inside you that I could relate to.  Maybe you are the one family member who could be on my level.  But now I’ll never really know.

I’ve never told anyone this, and I’m not Christian but sometimes I feel you with me like some sort of guardian angel to remind me what path my mental illness can take me down, to remind me of what drugs and booze can do to me.  Not only what they can do to me… but what they will to do me if I don’t fight the pain inside and the addiction every single second of every single day.  I don’t know if you’re really there guiding me, or if this feeling is my own conscious forming a persona I trust more than myself; in the end it doesn’t matter which is true. 

I love you even if no one really tells me who you were… there’s some sort of connection there.  You’ll never be forgotten, at least as long as I’m around.

Yours,

Me

(Source: lettersfromlimbo)

anyone who makes me feel guilty for not being “okay”

Dear Concerned Ones,

Sober is classy when doing your homework. However, interactions with members of society call for a supportive high.  Supplied by that guy your sister fucked with a blind fold so that she could pack up her purse with all of his pharmaceuticals. Thanks to her sacrifice,we now have a first aid kit for the crazies.

Tingletingtingle give me some ambien

RUSHRUSHRUSH give me some adderol

Whhhoooossh the morphine flies in, prozac promises to catch up.

A slender, silver bong languishs against my teacher’s lip

The cop’s fingers never shake as he slips the needle in.

Your dog didn’t scorn away from mushrooms in your backyard, no, he ate them.

Every time I see something that touches me inside my heart, well i shortly thereafter know that drugs created that.

Every time I see something that Is very, very, wrong in the world, well i can plot and scheme only to know that drugs will fix it.

To be or not to be is not the question when your fate was already thrust up, up.

Let’s try; to cope or not to cope.

To the girl with shiny mangled scars where nipples once were and hair shorn completely off, to the boy who must appear a pillar even with mentall illness eating at his brain, to the girl who’s stomach is swollen prengant with her father’s baby… coping means knitting a hundred scarves before you finally take a razor and sink it into your skin, to run, run, run, to escape the emptiness that never ceases pursuit, to sip your cup of water and nibble on your parsley leafs and yell “i take vitamins!” at anyone who looks concerned. 

To not cope is the simplest of things that we all crave.   For us not coping would be seeing a light at the end of the tunnel but turning and walking into the dark because you don’t wanna keep Mr.Reaper waiting any longer.

Sincerely,

a girl who should be doing more sleeping and less ambien.

A Letter From A Porn Shop Girl

Dear Best Bitch,

I’m sitting here at work leaning against the glass counter that is full of the twenty dollar and under pipes.  No matter how many days in a row that I work here, i’m still entralled by the swirls of glassy colors.  I feel like my eyes could trace them for hours on end and still continue to find little bubbles hifen in the glass or notice the way the glass distors my reflection near the mouth peice.  What the purpose of these peices?  Is it simply to smoke out of?  If it’s just to get you stoned, then there are many much cheaper and more simple mthords.  So perhaps their true purpose is to be pretty.  Undenialy there are many asthetically pleasing pipes.  But what about the ugly pipes?  Does this mean all pipes have no purpose to their existence or do those ugly pipes just need to be put out of their misery? I think by now you’ve realized that it’s not the nlack light reactive butterflies or puke green and piss yellow single blown pensies that i’m talking about.  Do we ever stop wondoring what the point in brathing is?  How do you find the motivation to keep on breathing?  Or am i completely alone in my feelings of continual melancholy over the meaning of life?  Why do you keep on keeping on?  Why does the glass blower keep making pipes? Why does the girl who sleeps alone everynight smile?  Whywhywhywhywhywhy?  

My coworker is sitting far away from me with his head stuck into some second rate murder mystery.  He always wears black pants with seams that threaten to rip across his thighs and a plain black tee that is skin tight to emphasize his rolling beer belly.  He trims his graying facial hair so carefully and yet he always smells like he’s allergic to showers/  I know that underneath that tan baseball capfrom the liquour store there is very little hair left.  The smell of weed wafts off the frunfy college age potheads who ooh and ahh over the towering hookahs and the novelty bongs… excuse me, the “water pipes”.  That pungent skunky smell mixes with the sloppy mess of incense, about twenty different kinds that are all stored so close together they all have the same scent by now.  But I can barely smell all of this over the menthol and coffee breath coming from my own mouth.  

When i raise my makeup free face and shake my bangs out of my eyes i’m starting at two walls and seven racks full of toys and gag gifts.  I spend a lot of time picking out gifts for people in my head or imagining how i’d use certain vibrators or gag balls if i had someone to use them on.  I don’t have to turn my head to see the lingerie room, just my eyes.  I love clothes.  The half folded tees with cheesy sayings, the sparkly nipple pasties, the cheetah print corsets, the lacey panties, the fishnet dresses, the incredibly expensive stripper shoes, the ribbon-heavy elbow length gloves, and the costume ready thigh highs.  It’s over priced and frivolous but so very wonderful, I love it all.  The more insane the clothes, the less people stare at my flabby stomach, thick thighs, and self inflicted scars.  

Our biggest area of merchandise is porn.  There’s a room that’s as big as the rest of the store… thousands upon thousands of empty movie cases and all along the walls are red and purple light up signs thast remind me of somthing you’d see in a bar or in a brothel in Europe.  The signs, they scream words that sometimes attract me and othertimes repulse me.  Bondage, amateur, big busts, shemale, bisexual, european, scat, west coast, all girl, gay, pregnant, mature, anime and on and on.  I think what I lvoe so much about porn is how it exposes that carnal, raw, honest part inside of us.  I feel like if more people watched porn instead of Jersey Shore or 16 and Pregnant the word would be a better place.  I hate that people put so much energy in being a person who everyone will like.   Real and raw is what is really beautiful.

Behind the porn room is the “arcade” it’s lots of private viewing booths where you can sit and pay to watch porn by the minute.  Pretty much everyone that uses it is either a really gross straight man who will never get laid and most often has some sorta of social disorder so that coming here to the arcade is the only sort of social interaction that they get.  The other people who use it are older repressed gay men.  There are hordes of men who are married with children and yet they are deeply in the closest and come to the booths to get some relief.  They make me sad.  And also angry, angry at society for them having to hide who they are forfear of what will happen if they expose how they feel inside.  It makes me feel kinda sick to be human.  LOVE.  If they’re not hurting anyone why can’t we just accept people’s differences?  I have to watch the monitor as the people come in and out of booths to make sure no oneslips into a booth together because that would turn it into a brothel and we don’t have a lisence for that.  While i’m watching them i like to make up stories in my head about their lives, their names, their families.  It’s ugly yet beautiful.

Even though I have a headache from the stench of the hand sanitizer that i saturate myself with everytime i touch those bills that have been so many places, even though an eight hour shift can pass so slow and feel like thirty hours, even though i have to listen to angry black women scream because their pink rabbit stopped working after a day and she didn’t see all of the “all sales final” signs… i do love this job.  I fit in, it feels natural.  I may get fired for leaving for two weeks because they don’t ave enogh people to cover for me even though i’m giving two months notice.  But i have to go home… Sacramento… hate and love.  I hope they don’t fire me, but if they do at least i know that maybe somewhere out there i will find another job that also fits me.  Maybe there is no purpose in life except to feel pleasure.  How do you think we can best do that?

Love,

Your Best Bitch