?

Log in

No account? Create an account

Jun. 14th, 2010

I've been walking so long I can't feel my feet, can't feel the asphalt under 'em, can't even tell if I'm moving forward anymore. So I continue to ask myself why I'm walking? Where the hell am I going? I've gotten stuck on the same old track - that broken record.

The money from my last business transaction is almost gone. It's down to one night at a crappy motel, or food in my belly and a nap outside. Guess it's the latter until the next deal comes along. I need to mend some broken bridges - find myself in the city again. The country leaves a girl like me wanting.

May. 3rd, 2010

It's over. Fuck this shit. I'm out and back amongst the living.

For now.
 Well this place is old
It feels just like a beat up truck
I turn the engine, but the engine doesn't turn
Well it smells of cheap wine and cigarettes
This place is always such a mess
Sometimes I think I'd like to watch it burn
I'm so alone and I feel just like somebody else
Man, I ain't changed, but I know I ain't the same
But somewhere here in between the city walls of dyin' dreams
I think his death, it must be killin' me


( 'One Headlight' excerpt -- Wallflowers )
 
I want the nightmares to stop. I need to get out of here. I've got no where to go, but that's just as good a destination as any, as long as it's just not here anymore. Southwest. New Mexico I think.

Gwen is most likely watchin' the borders, so I can't leave the country. She already knows I'm in the States. I can't get anyone else involved. Just gotta keep movin'. Gotta lay low. Gotta survive this.
 Fuck. I didn't even realize that yesterday was Valentine's Day until I saw all the pink and red and lovey dovey shit in the trash out on the curb this morning. I was too caught up in him. I miss him. This month fucking sucks hardcore monkey balls. Can't wait until it's over. There's no one I can go to, no one I can see. I have to be fucking incognito until that bitch stops trying to find me. Until then I can't go to any of my contacts, can't sell anything, can't make any money the way I'm use to. So, I'm at another ratty motel and working.. yeah, me working.. Char would be rolling in his grave.

I get paid by the hour so it doesn't matter to me whether or not there are any customers. There aren't usually many. Couple people come for coffee, a few more come for the music. This place is stock full of albums and CDs from Miles Davis to Death Driver to Eric Clapton to Britney Spears. Personally I'd rather burn the pop princess, but I think they'd fire me for destruction of property and I don't have the money nor the will to buy it just so I can destroy it. They've also got cassettes. Haven't seen those ancient babies in a while, but I still remember the days of making mix tapes, recording off the radio with the microphone pressed up to the speaker. The inventor of the MP3 should get a pat on the back.

Aside from all the usual drama and hubbub going around I'm beginning to feel something else, something I haven't felt in a while. It's hard to admit it because I'm so use to being on my own, being independent, being free, but I'm starting to feel that nagging ache of being alone. I haven't had a traveling companion for so long and my interactions with people are so far and few in between I wonder if I'll just fade away. I don't really think anyone would notice and that scares me a little... maybe a lot. I've spent so many years keeping people at an arm's distance it's just become normal. I don't know if I can let my guard down anymore.

Feb. 13th, 2010

 He would have been twenty five today.

I miss him.

Feb. 11th, 2010

Blood. So much blood saturating the floor. His, hers, mine. It seeps into the cracks, overflowing to find somewhere else to go. Fingernails and teeth, one by one. Hair in handfuls. Fingers and toes clipped like a birds wing, only these aren't growing back. Tongues and ears hacked. Eyes poked, prodded, popped, and pulled from sockets. Everything must come off, then everything must come out. Sexual organs sliced and ripped off -- or out. Nipples next, and breasts if you've got'em. Chests carved -- the open flaps of skin peeled away, exposing the stark white bones glossed with more blood. Always more blood. Larger than usual bolt cutters wedged under the sternum, gaping wide before a loud crack. The splintering sound of breaking bone, and screaming -- if the pipes still work -- if they're not already lost. The mind trapped in a prison of disassociation that is also a sanctuary.

The cold sweat beads off my skin, knuckles whiter than the sheets clenched between fingers. Which way is up? The light. The light is always up.

Surfacing from a dream is like surfacing from a pool of water after sitting too long at the bottom, lungs desperately aching for air. There's that moment just before emerging, where mere seconds are between me and consciousness, a moment of doubt -- of thinking there is no escape. But, somehow freedom comes and the light floods the eyes, air gulped down greedily, and blood pressure pacified until I collapse in exhaustion.

A blank stare at the clock tells me I got a couple hours. I'm so tired, I want more, but I can't bring myself to close my eyes again. The horror waits behind my eyelids. Guess I'm getting up.

Coffee. I hate coffee, but I need it. I need something.
I can only believe that I'm crawling out of bed as the sun is setting cause I got exceedingly drunk last night. Not stumbling and giggling drunk, but holy jesus fucking christ on a pogo stick batman -- I don't remember a god damn thing drunk. All the pubs and bars and clubs started blurring together after my twelfth drink. The people I saw and met might as well have been imaginary. I don't remember any names, and their faces are like trying to put together a mix and match puzzle, but my brain is broken and I'm missing pieces. Funny though, I can remember my dream. My fucked up dream.

Note to self -- no more sidewalk slammers.

I'm almost eighty percent positive I ended up in the passenger seat of someone's car, hot boxing. My clothes and hair reek of cigarettes and reefer anyway. Whatever, after a good long shower I'm gonna go find the closest, greasiest burger joint and order a double bacon cheeseburger -- sans condiments -- with fries.

I'm also sending a little thank you to whoever or whatever is up there that I didn't puke my guts out, and after all that sleep I'm virtually hangover free. Huzzah.
 I almost shot a guy. Not almost as in pulled my gun and threatened to shoot him, but almost as in fired and missed.

I always thought there was some unspoken understanding between strangers that a certain amount of personal space is something to be desired. You just don't fuck with that. It would have been one thing had I known the guy. One thing if I'd even seen him around before, but no. Out of no where he comes up to me at the bar, practically traps me in his arms, and talks with his lips right up against my ear. What. The. Fuck.

I happened to have my knife out and I pressed it into his gut (right where the liver would be located) and told him to back off. Fair warning, right? He didn't take me seriously. Why? Cause he was fucking crazy -- probably. And he underestimated me. Called me a sheep in wolf's clothing or something. Is it the pink hair? I dunno, but they absolutely cannot fathom that I can pull the trigger. Guess it's sort of an advantage, but it still pisses me off.

He called me his new match, whatever the fuck that means. I ended up cutting him across the throat, but it was superficial, and he got to the pressure point in my wrist before I could do any more damage. Fortunately I'd already had my other hand on my gun. I warned him a grand total of three times before I pulled it and tried to shoot him in the stomach. I must have hesitated longer than I thought, perhaps a split second, cause somehow he dodged it. Whatever, I scared him. I saw it in his face -- the realization that there was possibly someone crazier than him. Someone who wouldn't bat an eye shooting at a person -- in public no less.

I stand by what I did, no regrets. The guy was an egotistical prick and deserved a wake up call. I'm not one of those girls and I'm not sorry.

Feb. 6th, 2010

 The airport was gross, the weather was gross, the cab was gross, but the place where I'm staying is alright. I'm trying not to make up my mind that I already hate it here. I've only passed through before -- never interested me enough to linger. Head west and all you get is hicks, trailer trash and meth labs, but head east and your lucky if you can walk down the street without a gang fight breaking out and being caught in the crossfire. So, I'm somewhere in the middle.

I was fucking famished by the time I made it anywhere, so I found a diner to get some breakfast at lunch. I love me some bacon. I think the guy that worked there, Charlie according to the name tag, needed a happy pill. Slapping menus and dropping plates haphazardly. I thought it then and I think it now -- I probably would have shot him had I been hungover. Did he think I was deaf? Maybe he's deaf. Maybe he reads lips. I didn't hear him say anything. Not to me or the other fella that was there. Some boy in suspenders and cheap clothes. Never caught his name. He borrowed my knife to dig out a splinter, and I teased him about jacking off the wood too much. There was some clever banter, but nothing profoundly interesting. I'll tuck it away in the 'met-someone-interesting' file and move on.

I think I'll go out and take a look around again, do some exploring. Maybe go back to that diner. The food was pretty good.

Sidebar: Had some dreams last night about my ex. In one we got back together and in the other he was married. What the fuck?! Gotta stop falling asleep with those tv dramas on.

Feb. 4th, 2010

 It's one of those hollywood cliched moments when your past catches up to you, no matter how far away you go or how fast you run. I haven't slept in over twenty-four hours. She fucking found me. Someone fucking told her where I was. It doesn't take much to win over a fucked up, drugged up low-life informant when you have the means -- the cash flow. But thankfully we didn't come face to face. Dakshi caught on to the gossip train before anything bad could've happened. He always manages to keep his ear to the pipes. I was lucky.

My trip to the states came sooner than I thought. I couldn't fucking believe it -- the bitch ran me out of Mumbai, Mumbai, my sweet ever loving Mumbai. Fuck. Stupid cunt. I've snuffed my fair share of people out of necessity. If it comes down to it I'll fucking kill her too -- but I'm coming so close to wanting to do it instead of having to do it. I don't particularly enjoy that feeling -- like acid slowly corroding my insides. The same feeling I got with the guy that attacked me. I still wanna fucking castrate him with some fishing line and a rusty knife.

I can't go to California or Colorado like I planned. It would be too easy for her to find me there. I need somewhere to disappear, to lay low until the heats off -- until her leads run dry and she gives up. Means I can't go to any of my friends cause their friends would turn me in for a dime. In this business can't say I really blame them, but it's severely inconvenient.

Dakshi gave me enough money to get to Miami and the next flight to nowhere -- somewhere. If or when I see him again I'll definitely have to give him some thank you sex.. or something. I'll repay him at any rate. Now I'm stuck at the airport until I decide where to go. I don't usually travel by plane, but it's the fastest form of transportation to get away from the hoe-bag.

Next flight is to St. Louis.

Looks like I'm going to the show-me-state. What the fuck does that even mean anyway?

Latest Month

June 2010
S M T W T F S
  12345
6789101112
13141516171819
20212223242526
27282930   

Syndicate

RSS Atom
Powered by LiveJournal.com
Designed by Tiffany Chow