Saturday, January 3, 2009

Margarita Night

"Tarani, play catch-up. We've already had ten shots each."
15 minutes later I'm caught up.
A phone call, phone falls into toilet, Lauren laughing, I'm laughing.

Ally crying next to a wall after I cut her down.
"Fuck you, Ally."
Don't talk to Lauren like that.

Then I'm driving.
Then I realize Catie's in my passenger's seat screaming at me to stop.
I keep on driving past the Brassler's, past the curve, past the stop sign.
She's still screaming but fuck that.
"If you loved me you'd stop."
I pull into the bank. God damnit, take the fucking keys.

I start screaming and punch punch punch punch punch punch.
God fucking damnit. God damn. Why the FUCK am I so FUCKING MAD?
Why the FUCK did I punch my mirror!?!
Haha! Yes! I fixed it!
But still, Catie, GOD DAMNIT. fuck...
Whatever this is it really fucking hurts.

5 minutes later, Catie's house.
She's pulling the whole you-should-stay-here card.
And I'm not taking it.
Fine, her sister follows us as Catie drives me to my house.

I remember toilet, barf, naked on the floor.
Heather? God, Heather, don't look at me right now.
Please don't see me like this, Heather.
Heather, go away and don't look back.
This is about as far as I go.

Still naked. Drunkin' around the room.
World spins madly on, and I find my trash can.
Barf, barf, barf. Punch. Fuck!
Why does this hurt so fucking bad?
Fuck this. FUCK.
Heather, get mom.
Heather, get someone.
Mom, call 9-1-1.
My chest is ripping itself in half.
Someone is pinching my heart with a pair of pliers.
Please God, stop it. Fucking make it stop.

I think the whole fire department was in my room.
The paramedics walk me to the ambulance,
and the red lights are on.
Sirens? Fucking shit. What did I do?
"I'm sorry, guys."
There is someone dying in an alley because I was selfish enough to call an ambulance.

Hospital. Waiting in the hallway.
Mom? God, I'm so sorry.
If you think this is bad...God, you have no idea.
You would hate me.

Are you trying to come out to me?


And we talk and I quote poems and literature and I try to sound slightly sober.
I wanted to kill myself.
She knows it, I know it.
Should I commit you?
Do it. I want to die. Do it. It doesn't matter.
You're going to where your sister went.
No, I want to live. Never mind.

Before we left mom said something to the nurse about having suppositories at the house,
and I go "hah, yeah, we've got an assload."

Not funny? Oh, I thought it was funny. Sorry I'm drunk, mom.
Oh sorry I'm sexually confused, too.

Drive home from the hospital she starts laughing:
One of my daughters is crazy and the other one is a lesbian. Great.

I laugh, but I'm broken-hearted.
The anger fades, and I feel two feet small.
And I still cry thinking about it.
I don't want to feel like being who I am means that I am broken,
like I have some sort of a glitch,
but I know she thinks I am.


I woke up to the smell of sour apples.
What the fuck? Oh, that's what it is...
It's fucking sick is what it is.
I took the trash out.
Mom made pancakes.

Then she laid in her bed and she slept the day away.
She told Lenny, "I just want to wake up when everything's changed."

I can't change it, though.


Have patience with everything that remains unsolved in your heart. Try to love the questions themselves, like locked rooms and like books written in a foreign language. Do not now look for the answers. They cannot now be given to you because you could not live them. It is a question of experiencing everything. At present you need to live the question. Perhaps you will gradually, without even noticing it, find yourself experiencing the answer, some distant day.

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