2011-11-08 - 6:08 p.m.
Good bleedy Christ do I miss Laura, reading her comments on here to me. She was the best, the funniest, the Stenzelliest, and curses on everything, five years, most of all myself. I use "that situation" as a nice rusty railroad spike with which to strike the spaces between my buds of self-esteem. What I mean is, I crucify myself with the grotesque stupid lame betrayalette I performed one night in late 2006 due to something called Slut Punch and slugs of champagne. Have not been back to Boston since. Have not been alive to Laura since. I have hangs of heavy codependency and have not been responsible as has she and I pity myself saying "it's for the best, for me to not exist as such, I failed, I flailed and fled too much, I served as little but a crutch" what's with all this rhyming, Kiley? Thinking you're so deep thinking about your friend's bejeweled ex-bedroom closet when you should be working on your monologue. That's not a metaphor. OOH, the word "metaphor" has the word "meta" in it! I swear I'm not stoned.
Um. This year was a lot! And weirdly cohesive; the most put-together ever, for I had zero blackouts. Hooray!!
And when I line up my year-ending lists .. what? I forgot what I was going to say about that.
I swear, I'm not stoned. I just have a little hypergraphia-lite, like kids with Ritalin psychosis.
Jenny is calling.
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