one
Slander. Murmur. Decay. The flowers try hard to be pretty and succeed well providing, happiness, smiles, and tears for the grave. The grave goes deep within, and down, then later with you, and now with a loved one. Down, down, it eases the hurt before the rot. In silent pity, not at all pity when the people down under begin their talk. Don't want to fade away, be transparent, or otherwise after death, after the leaping demise. Shallow earth is life force and the force forever after. German shepherds ground junction nowhere it matters.
Cloud-gazing. Time spacing out. Zenith. Counting down not. Starving for nothing. Starving for attention. Loving to be lonely. Loving the unhappiness. Time exists only in the clouds passing. Mind is not racing. More or less. Stimulants. Injections. An inner lower vexed conversation. Back and forth denying source of relaxation. Her wellness wasn't well at all. Her thoughts were contrived with her wellness being unwell. A pity which fell. A self pity of having never been fixed. Being fixed was her only wish, but then, she had been the only one existing. Though there were other things, but they were just other things. Walking alone. Always. It Never mattered. Never did. Walking alone does. Crowded. Catching the flu. And alone still it goes, catching the flu.
Granting the the frantic manic panic attacks -so the earth is good at what is does. Two things together are one. Doesn't matter -doesn't it matter? It doesn't matter. Never contriving wanting knowing. The earth is only still once in time before you start going at it, at arms' up. In womb -in mother, before you start to die.
There was a time one Holiday in Muskegon. Car ride. Compass center windshield. Pallet pouring a rain pour. Highway overpass's. No center dividers. Sideway highway trees there for adoption. Grandma, in passenger seat Grandpa driving. Back seat, first big brother left seat. Second big brother right side. Little girl in the middle. Answer. Answer. You don't answer. They talk. You wont talk. It is o.k. They will know another day.. Your forward is not their forward. Walking. They walk. It is all the same. Decreasing energy is not an answer. Increasing energy is not an answer. Nothing is an answer. It is all the same. It is all the same energy going forward motion.
Sky fade to black. Specks of hungry light unite intent tree tops bending minds. Staple tree. Ti tree. Falling from the sky . Trip to hospital but no ambulance. Doctors stitch the forehead. Blow up surgical glove to make lips smirk a hint of non fear. But fear. Pain. Fear. Iniquity. Blood. What happen? Nurse really is comforting. Bless this nurse what is her name. She speaks of friends, Like the one she asked about, Carrie. Soothing, leading, courting young motivational motion.
In Grammar school she was uncomfortable to look at her own cloths. Disheveled leaves align the floor ground . And unable to count. Only small counts until she hits the number Twelve. Twelve-teen. Thirteen-teen. Fifteen. Four teen-teen. On the swing. On and on she goes. Six-ix-ix-teen, seven-ixteen... Back and forth. Up and down. High equilibrium to the earths ground then up high again. Up level up. Come down go to school.
Then at night, later evening. A natural sleep over with Jaci, went out for a bowl of ice cream, then heard the kitten, stolen, screaming. Kitty. Kitty. Stupid cat. Orange tabby stick its head trough the open hole in the door of the closet. Take the door off the roll track. Dad called home to saw a slit for the nose. Kitty rescued. Orange tabby intoxicated by poison one day, one bad day. People fucked up. Exterminators. She happened ignorant. Happen. Happened.
Another one vacation, lot's of vacations, parent never selfish. Yawing dust. Exhausting dusky City streets. Pick-up-truck. Cabin. Stuck. Unstuck in a world. Weird -weird -world. What is this place? Exhaled exhausted over and over again, doesn't' matter, what ever, why oh why does it go like this? What is this? Venting coast to the East. Heading North. Bean bags. First bean bag, big brother Red, his favorite color. Second bean bag, big brother Blue, his favorite color. Third bean bag, little sister Yellow, her favorite color, before she realizes her insides are black. The Blue truck's navigator is Mom . Blue truck's driver is Dad. Children bundled loose in the blue trucks' cabin.
She said words. . The words she wanted to use. She said them to her friend of 13 years, which were now dying years. Friend never, never, came back. Happens, always when most likely needing her. Happens, when most always wanting her. Starving for attention. But She goes away healthy in a swagger. Steady. No pain. But hurt. Taking on the world. Melodramatic as always. Facing the truth. But not facing the truth. Swagger, distance tells all. Dancing like a muppet. Not what they say, or see. What the muppet's do. How she moves, walks, talks, drives, and of corse dances. That's how she does it daily to keep going. Surviving. If only the saddened people. Friends saddened. Whomever, who knew nothing, knew this, If only. And no day will come! You can keep talking. No day of happy people dancing away from a battle. Tenacious satisfaction. Abbreviated madness. habitual.
She sets astride in her cloudscape car...Photographer, at heart, and to show off especially to her family. --Camera shot. Blood shot. Song on repeat. No hesitation. Snap-shot, flip-flop, Pan-in, pan-out. Done, good. It's good, it's good, do it over. Stretch it out this time. Wait. Hesitate. Pan it out in script. Do it well, you see it well, what you want to see. Thousand hours couldn't hold you in. A thousand hours couldn't hold you still. Couldn't put you deep beneath it's skin. Take it well. Take it. Sustain your being. Simpleton. Newly new to this, beyond reasons she knew not to rely on herself, -didn't do well -last long -was o.k..
Going at it day to day, -picking them off. But the Clouds couldn't pull her through. Parallel. The river fell. The damn broke. Parallel. Broken note. She turns around. Agnostic. Atheist. Nothing. Internally everything. Danger provoked. Natural fear. Natural instinct. Nowhere is god but inside the face of every mirror. Where did she begin? Not from the beginning, but the pinpoint of learning. Where was it. And it doesn't matter. And does it? It doesn't at all in the slightest. The least bit.
The first day at school when wearing all black... fixth grade. Hair blown up in Aqua net. Nested knotted like Robert Smith. Eyeliner. Kids take her out back. To the field. To the tree. Their hang out. Her friends. Birthday party friends. Said what the hell are you doing! Tore the knots pelted her feet. Pushed her to the ground, left the field. Then Donna. Sweet dark smoking Donna.. We think alike... Vernacular. Can't get around it. Passionate. Romantic. Increased emotion you can not get around it.. It is increased, they do that to you. People show fast emotions across their face, they do not blink, its not in their blink, not their look, or whatever... but a good-bye, or a good-night, and see you tomorrow. A ferruled, imprint, an increased heart-rate, forever, your thoughts forever, ever, where ever they are....An instant, fatal.
She listens intently with different instructions facing the wall with no instructions. Denying the world one too many times. Facing the world one too many times. going at it again. Doing this again. But then again it is different isn't it. Straight she walks the path it is not. It is frantic, and going at it steady. Hands in coat pocket, hearing her heart beat steady, and calling. The future is a future. The mind is dark, but not darker. Clearing out now. Clearing out. Passing. Not sleeping anymore. Done. Then Donna, she, leaves up north.
Melodrama. Nothing is better and is more satisfying. Day after day it is satisfying. Will never get along without it. Bipolar. Forever and after. Where was the time. It was in denial. These short bursts of paragraphs, sentences all matter and match up and picked. Sculpted. For you. We are everywhere, all of us combined we all say the same shit, don't lie. Count the times. You have maybe lied. No, lied. That is what we all do together, intertwined.
Bricks line everything. Even the sky. When you lie in bed at night and it is dark outside. Maybe you read your samuel Beckett book before bed, maybe this is something he might have said. But he didn't. The horizon isn't horizontal, it is parallel, and in fours, in the corners of your bedroom. She can do it better she says. Her ego may be bigger perhaps, but different. Lady, woman. Not man. Her ego bigger. Ha. He's the man..
At break time from the coffee shop, she sits at the same bench sipping her coffee from her mug, studying the crows, doing their rounds at the traffic stop. ...Hop, hop, hopping. The crows hop, along across the street. Drop. Drop. Dropping walnuts up five feet high from the sky down onto the street onto falling traffic then smashed by tires. She can watch the display all day long. Listen to the sounds of clicks and clacks from their throats. Watch them happy galloping, and giddy, in a team rooting for one another. And the cloudsgrey... Overcast, not flat grey, but rolling layers. Silver, Neutral, hints of blue, with no rain. The still air trapped, in the atmosphere. Her atmosphere, Joined along with the murder of crows. Murder of crows. As the saying is. So silly a saying, and where did it come from? So random. So dumb kind of. Alfred Hitchok comes to mind always first. The strange man.. The great man. Whom can direct an actor like no other man can. Set a scene, use black and white photography, like no other man can. Stand weird and stout, triangular, like no other man can. Ah the nineteen fifties. The suits, The woman, The fidelio, the veiled hats. The beauty and mystery. She never was there. Wished and fantasized, for her past. -But it doesn't matter, thanks to film and photography, and the men and women who still tell there stories...
She use to be solitude type of girl. And a love for solitude it there for was. A bed full body solitude. -A bird yelling and punching with it's beak at the cage solitude. A way of thinking she would do better in life. But it was a lethargic solitude. A false going on every day she'd do the same. The burning forward burning for reasons to sit her down. Lethargy is the devil. Lethargy... Something she lived through her whole existence, from birth, she guess's from the beginning. A normalcy. Everyone was the same. They had to be. Until now. It is so different. Where did all the time go, manifested in anger, and adrenalin, here she is. She could park her car anywhere, she had her favorite spots. But growing up never gets better/but better,-more respected. She could sit there in her car forever and ever.
Friday is the weekend. Two days coming. The relaxing notion of freedom with children is the most blessing feeling. Then monday. Five days coming. Dogs. All week long. Walking. She Does it. Loves it. And still gets irate in life, frustrated. Life. Sadness. Depressed. Everything. Just like everybody. But intense. Manic. Racing. Suicidal. Compressed. So...On her bike, riding down the street, bopping her pig tails back and forth like Red Fragglerock, pig-tailed girl muppet. Traveling fast, flying, floating, feeling a levitation, hearing the music sound bouncing back and forth in her head, ear-buds opposite faced, with the motion of her pig tails, sloppily she thrashes around, rides like a drunk, in dreamland. Just like New Order says, "It's never enough until your heart stops beating"... And the dancing, -singing guitars also saying something. " There is no end to this"... And the singing bass guitars, rocking... And she is slapping the bass, air guitar-ing.. "There is no end to this"... "Remember life is stranger, life gets stranger every day"... She loves it, feels the music, all of it together a whole as one... Everything is perfect. Everything gets stranger... More.
Coffee. Coffee. Cigarettes. More cigarettes. Smoking. Alone. Talking. Nowhere goes randomness anymore, everything is justified. Stamped. Torpedo looks. Hot flashes. She hate this. Outside better. Black clothing intimidating to unsocalized people. Whatever. Use to it. Just the rude demeanor. Rude rude people out there. Somewhere everyday.
The sun goes down the way it should, but it puts a pull on her when it does late at night. It makes her wish nothing mattered. And wishing the pills were fresh across her face and not inside the bottle. Poor her. She bores a galore of despair on the floor, no more, wake up. Nothing like a panic attack. Resist it. Breath and drool. Breath in and out the drool. breath from your teeth deep and Moan. Smoke a bowl. Get it out. She does. Rewind.
Evil and good. What's the difference They do what they can . But it isn't enough. And the ones that stare, they don't do anything at all. The gloating. The ugly ones, the ones with their mouths open when they eat. Which she could denounce them all. And who wouldn't. Is that evil? No. Compare the bee that doesn't do it's work, communicate, keep up. it dies. What does the pain matter? Sooth the soul with dirt and rocks, make it last until the end. Take the buildings they've built, and make them your own, live in them.
When she is driving, she feels the car flying, like through space, especially at night on the freeway with the headlight traffic blowing toward her... Her favorite thing ever, space-mountain, at the front, with her arms out extended, what a thrill, and! ugh. Driving... All she does is hear voices. Not manic, but sometimes. Not telling her what to do really, sort of, but quiet. Dark for sure, sometimes hopeful, motivating, sometimes singing, playing notes, motivating, funny. Still saying though, one day it could all go a way of schizophrenia . In any case it does run in the family...
Wicked feelings of demise, and hurt maybe. No, not hurt. Pain. No one . Alone. Flying. No one, but you. More stilettos of every length and width. Fast forward. Fast forward the every emotion inside and out. She thinks to herself, screams out loud, sings out loud, "One day, when I am rich and famous, I will fuck you all in the ass! You rich fucks. You rich bitch. Done! I can drive faster than anyone on this freeway. I am done! I win!" , the exhilaration of telling the bitch off earlier in the parking lot, that woman, that ugly of a woman, the thicket of her face, what was she doing? telling strangers what to do, weird. Not stuck anymore. Push it open, move that door. Shove it with the left boot, there she goes. Ugh. Car.
Humanize her. Put her in a movie. Dehumanize her. Put her in a movie. Heading home. Alone. They were lame. She knew it. Didn't want to go. Canvas waiting. Prepped. Ready to go. Cloudless yet cloudy. Burnt umber at the moon, wanting, waiting to turn rusty. Clear gaps awaiting her time.
A sculpture just like the one in the mirror if you would look up. It is cold. It is silent. It was never anything else, nor had she ever so slightly struck a curiosity. Time was present with experience with one eye clenched opposite a fist. One day. One day. The freeway will one day go forward forever toward her destiny.
It's hard to do anything when she is stuttering and listening to Joy division. Completely complicated fractions. .. Sipping her wine, warm down her spine. Feels so good in the soul, feels go good in her frown. Write it all down. Ink trail bleed after brown ink on the paper. Can't see well without her glasses. She remembers faces are not the same anymore anywhere, hearing voices in the walls, whispering hollow echos down the hall through the door, all up to her now. Get up, get out the door, walk the streets, to the liquor store.
She walks in slow motion. Slow-motion girl, where has all the time gone? Didn't you know there is no such thing as time-travel. Except way back in memory. The graves, they own your name from the beginning Stone etched in your birth's certificate. Obituary written daily. Watch the earth rotate. Watch the sun and moons' power force the tides over her emotionally. Clamp her hands like lobster claws tight, no leverage. Tingle all over her deathly satisfying. Slow-motion where are you, Slow down more even so, No keep going. The ocean may be too rough for you, but the rogue waves are really nothing.
Shallow graves are nonexistent unless unfortunately death demise murder, suicide, and or, missing, or you've got another terrible story. He was found a few days later fortunate, at the transient trail, next the canal all wet, lying there three days in the rain, maybe longer, five days with out a word. There is nothing missing anymore. Everything is at her disposal.. Who knows what, but it doesn't matter. It is all coming together, into place, once and for all. What a interesting intense destructive feeling a purpose can give you. A whole new high, grieving. Let the light in, but shit, a kind of thrill that seeks her. A kind of storm she wont wait for. Let a light hit. A bind in the brain that beats the head hard. Nothing is complicated anymore. Seeing in color. Seeing in color. Existential. Where is the black, hit the light, The light shit's on her.
As a child, she'd been down this street so many times before. Smelling the cigar smoke, illuminating from the same cookie-cutter house from the middle of the block, resinating the area everywhere, the sweet smell, the sweet old nameless man. The smoke rust stops the sun, flips the street lamps on. Children start their hunt, romp, hide and seek fun. Hide in trees, Under hoses, taking stances, run for cover, count down their chances. Forward. following their footsteps, always following footstep, across the sidewalk count the steps, count the single squares in the cement. twenty Seven. Step on a crack, you what's next.... No one, no mother, after dark, no one awake.
Starts her period thirteen years old, bloodied. There is a thing. Then at fifteen. he persisted, it was high school, they were freshmen's. She had a little strength, if any. None in the the end. By thirty one, for sure. Her first hard core relationship. Anything you can compare to an adult relationship. It was love, but dumb, young love. Love, hard core love. It lasted, for the five summer's. Then on and off and on and off. Still quaintness, maybe, a call on her birthday, valentines day, who could forget that? Mixed up after everything. After everything, after that. So many of them, and this and that, is that. Now, on four hand's still cant count the weight of men.The the p.t.s.d she did it to herself. She still doesn't know. And it all makes sense in it all now in a every which way. Vexed from the start like the beginning of the story says. Living. It just happens. Happens to everyone. She copes with pictures turned into dreams as memories. A stranger world of existence. -Thick pumping. -Thick pumping. Hard, fast pumping. In and out. Dick not what is thought. -Fast pumping. -Thick pumping. . It doesn't stop. Harder still. End it will not. A stranger world exists inside her mind... Like cat skeletons stabbing her vagina in and out from the inside. Like bird beaks protruding her in the torso. Fix her bra, pull up her stockings, go out the door, run past the bathroom. Did she ever say no? Does she even remember? Demise it... Think when you enjoyed him...But FUCK that.. She can't take it. Demise it and the shadow that haunts her.. She needs no sympathy, no. Just a fuck you fuck that. Not about to suffer again.... For anyone.....If the pills work, take them.
Get up, get up, again, what is she doing! Pain in the neck! Pain. Forgetting. . Agin, again... Dig around for it.. again. Find it. sit down.. Need something.. Get up.. Where did it go. She throws shit... Where is is.. Irate again. Found it, dug around. Go back, sit down. Go at it again... Can't. Stuck. Easy isn't it. No.
For shoulders, four arms. twenty fingers. , four hands. two bodies. four eyes. two mouths. two people. two people talking. Talking scribble scrabble, blah, blah, blah. Stories of the past. Good time's, bad times, and they are none the less. Can't go on like this, caring so much. No. NO. Not. But that's what they say. "Calm down!" Always everyday the same. The people, shooting at her, laser pointer pointing directly at her head. Hollow body, hollow head, they don't know she is ready more than ever right now. Facing nothing. But wait. No, She hides. Don't relax it, resist it. Face it. They are not right, calm yourself. Worry no more about yourself, the contrive in yourself. She listens to the voices... She leaves it open, unable to care, the door ajar, far away forever, in day, in dark, wherever. The for whomever.
The cat walks across the floor, four feet along with beat, amazing. Her calico cat matches every room in the house. Any room. Any piece of furniture, any wall, anywhere. Her dog is a Shiba Inu. Orange and brilliant. Fox-faced. Matching the couch and walls in the living room, if she had to say. A glass of wine, home alone. Friday Her demise kicks in.
What's so great about the living, Think if you don't enjoy anything, If you overshot everything. The wind is howling, blowing over her.. The wind is everything. The wind is everything. And howling over her. Crooked steps down from here, slippery and old, holding the rail. The wind is everywhere, but she can't see anything, the silence is howling through everything but her, a vast heart, in-between a cruel distance between the beginning and the end. Every step forward is a strain of what love is. So She paints to see inside herself. She can't deny she's dark inside, but too many colors out the outside world. Deep. Too deep they hit her hard. She paints to see inside herself. She gets it out stroke by stroke. Mixture by mix. If any pain, it can be fixed. She gets a dirty mess she loves. Gets deep into it. Her hand's camouflaged in the landscape sun. Her head clears up, brush down and up the panel down and up the panel. Up.
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two
The intensity in the brain the facade of her well being, jolting the same old name, she is two people, and it is what she believes, bipolar, it is true. Following nothing, following nothing. Inking thoughts, thoughts, that is all they are. Just like an object, pointless. Steady headed, she is boring, linear. Guided by fear of white spaces in every crack of the brain, ugly face again. How on earth is surviving anywhere near, if it is so depressing. She is steady, no vernacular. Boring, habits forming non-motivational habits forming. Forming a line around her body, how will she move, a red line around her body, force so controlling.
Animated sloppiness. Down-low. Determinate the spine to a halt, gouge the eyes with the ink pen to the skull, but there is no backside at the end of it. A visit from the other please, let the other come out. She wants her mania back, none of this non-motivational side, gouge her eyes with the ink pen gouge them out. Her pacing is array, her pacing she misses, if so she could write better, and get it all out. So she gets her busiest, most messiest, electronic music, loud and out. Mind go crazy, she is addicted to mania, her pill's work too well.
A plateau, her mind is and boring she is mad forgetful, unlikely to think even poetically, none the less even likely to write a story, bullets protruding her empty soul forego the excellent soundtrack of her life. Sometimes useful, sometimes outright strange, dead, uneventful. Clear in the background, compete she rests no more bleeding out poring out methodically drowning in her own piss and shit nothing makes any sense why try.
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three
Bipolar mania. Two sides, Two people. One dark, one light. Bouncing back and forth, forwards, backwards. Fade in, fade out. Day in, day out. Night after night. Bipolar mania, that's what it is, two side, two people.
She wallows in her own strife. She licks the ground at her own pace. Regurgitating nothing, sponging the taste of everything. leaking out nothing. False pretense from everybody, the city is filthy. She is filthy. Always has been, not a new ting. Licking shit. Even a tongue behind her own back. Wallowing, at her best.
A down low, Her pigtails are gone, no swagger, all false, she is a fake, she was an actor, all that time. She can't remember. Who she ever was before. Now she can't even remember her childhood. She has no idea who she is. She hates her real identity. Kelly. She hates herself so much she want to die, She remembers the first time she really decided of suicide.
It was a time she lived too close to the amtrack. Too close to the railway. Trains in and out all day. She could run away, or jump in front of one, either way, it sounded easier to jump. She could see the trains from her stoop-step-porch-sit-smoke spot. She was tired of living, she hated her boyfriend stuck in this depressing disgusting world secluded. Using drugs which she had no control over, she was a no one. she was a no one. she was gone. She wanted to die, run away from this person who was doing this. It's all that consumed her.
The train, The train, every night while lying in bed, she wondered why she would never get up and just go jump. Her mind was fucked, and coming down off cocaine even worser it makes the urges to jump, and the drooling hump of skin and bones drooling open mouthed gashed stained teeth horsey faced ginger get out of bed go to the railway. Every time that horn blows it was closer to death. The ironicalness of the happy people inside the cabins visiting families while dyeing makes more sense.
And then again the world around is around, going at her, the abandon house across the street standing always, tomorrow night another night to feel the same, the demise of life will rise again. the love of shame. Now living miles away, can still hear the horn of the amtrack train traveling through time , still grossed out by that life, still frighted of that train. A sucked up soul. A sucked up life, ashamed.
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four
There's something lonely in the way. Nothing can open the doorway. Fascinated by the walls, the four corners of her parallel world, the windowsill, horizontal opening towards the bleak and blue, follow it maybe one day out toward the natural instincts of what we all should do. Such and such, blah, blahs what the fuck's and count the slob's, nothing matters as long as we're alive, and doesn't it look fine in here safe in our beds? Our parallel universe, our horizontal universe.
Shaded by nothing anymore, The seclusion is at best when nothing is to be done, no job anymore, poetry is what she wishes to always write, wishes she could just make this up and all . Now nothing makes sense, is this real, gargantuan emptiness. Heavyweight, ill-vast. decompression.
She wants to booze after spying the orang rust the moon streaks the silhouette of the pines outside the window. She steps outside her parents house whom now take care of her since her arrest and traumatization. She lights up a smoke and stalks down the street her old haunts to the brand new 711. SHe buys a couple tall cans. Starts one on the way home, finishes it up, then drinks the other out front pondering.
She can remember the the old neighbors long gone and past. Some still there, and some she babysat, all grown up now, making her feel old and pathetic. She can remember this one time on her way home from school, with her friend Gwen. The last day she ever saw Gwen. Gwen's mother was franticly in her car, revved up with Gwen's little brother in the back seat almost like her mother had just got out of a dog fight running from a wolf trailing her scent. Gwen's mother was screaming at her, obvious to get her in the car, it was important. Gwen was slow, her step dad ran out of the house mad, the wolf foaming at the mouth, flew into the car pulling the young boy out, trowing punches at his wife. Gwen screaming, 'WHAT THE FUCK!' somehow Gwen gets in the backseat pulls her little brother from the grips of the wolf and with the door still open Gwen's mother skids off. He goes to jail for one day, Gwen packs up, she never see her again.
Booze, gets you thinking. Gets you crying. Gets you wanting for more, Or gets you dying. Pondering, loving, statistic. Able, unable. Pissed. Sad. Depressed. Happy when you have friends.
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Five
She wants to be an 'I'. She want's to be a first person. She is a first person, she hides herself behind a she. She is two people. What is it worth? A real life thing. Life is real if you walk. Life is real if you breath. Life is real if you dream, Her roller-coaster dream, yes the dream which kept her alive. the best dream she could remember as a kid. Going up in a janky car up on the track wobbly slow high fast in upside down, then up slow up fast letting go from a dead track, it letting go into the sky, bolts falling apart, so frightening but not. dream not ending but screaming to wake up. Panic dream, but the best dream ever.
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Six
She emerges in the morning 8 am usually, and if it is overcast, it is a great morning, full of perplex electric hurting in the heart. A good hurt. She wants extra topamax, the medication that motivates. She wants to be a telephone pole. She wants to be in the landscape. She wants to be an outer body entity. Or an airplane, a big hunk of metal with bolts and welding, holding hundreds of people clumped all together, flying back and forth with a pilot navigating, with a maintenance crew keeping her up making sure she doesn't break down, always keeping her high above the ground. False nature.
False nature like death walking the earth, like the birds carrying dead friends spirits around. She is rocking back and forth not able to sit, again, almost in a panic. She said she loved it, what a regretful thought, rocking back and forth, the aphex twin, the vacuum in her head. She locks herself inside her bedroom barricades. loses it.
The ceiling is her friend, moments between the end, open your eyes descend into the bed. Don't deny she is dead again. Drink the liquor write it out, get out of bed, hurry now, descend from it all now. The bumps on your face don't matter, is she back from the dead, yes she has come back, came back, hurry now, go get some more booze, go get some let it be, the morning did not last long at all. There is no flow in the head where all mighty look at the letters cant you see them come at you out of your head from your note pad there they are punching you in the face.
The alcohol, she almost quit-almost quit. Since her arrest, the Kolonopin. But she even quit taking that, since her crazy arrest. The most traumatizing thing ever to happen with authority figures, or even ever, still not over it. She had only blew a point zero six. They arrested her for whatever. Panic attack is her guess, thinking she was on hard drugs, thinking she was on meth. They pulled her over for ludicrous reasons. Passing someone then changing her mind last minute. This bitch cop didn't give her one second. The woman cop was just rude from the beginning. She was being compliant, even telling her she had a couple glasses of wine, knowing it was dumb, but thinking it was innocent within the time frame. Then it SNOWBALLED.The Woman called for backup. For a tiny girl with panic attacks, she kept asking for help, "please help, hold my hand," but the woman pressed her to stay in her car and wait. Then there must of been three, then four, then like five cop cars showing up. Almost every one two to a car, surrounding her like she was crazy, of corse she was, look at what they are doing to her. All she was was doing nothing, Just a swerve to the left, oops. And 20 cops come rushing at her. After the routine drunk test which she passes they put her to the side she hears them whispering, "maybe we should let her go," then they do a breathalyzer, the one mixed with a drug test, the drug part is inconclusive the drunk one is later known as point zero six, under the limit. They put her to the car say "your under arrest." put her in hand cuffs shove her in the cop car, while brushing around in her car.
She's later brought to the station where the handcuff her to the wall, sit her on a bench, while the fill out the paper work, she sits there having panic attacks not getting any answers, trying to control the situation, getting them angrier, waiting for a nurse to draw blood to look for street drugs, those ass holes. She sits there handcuffed to the wall for over an hour, one of the cops has the decency to adjust and give her more comfortable handcuffs which she so slipped off in a guff at the end of their fiasco. they just thought it entertainment. She slammed the bench to the ground as they were sluggishly taking their time getting her out of there, which she regrets, everything.
The incarceration was hell, the bitch lady was evil "step back the red line, you will get it you little whiney baby!" panic attacks for twelve hours straight, no medication, the pee shy cant piss was worser even. For twelve hours. Step to the red line one more time you are gonna get it, they picked her up by the arms threw her in a room, ah thank you some peace and quiet. But just as she gets comfortable, not really, they take her out put her in another room with the other girls, now she has to shit. She chats a little with the other girls they were there for decent reasons, unlike her, there for nothing. They let them all go! Not her
They keep her there all alone, making her panic attacks worser, rising higher now, it is now the next day! no sleep, now really fucked up with out night med, without morning meds. The guard just belittling, calling her a baby, laughing with her crew, and cussing, changing the channels on the t.v. being completely unprofessional.
She wasn't even drunk, they were holding her for nothing, they had nothing on her, they let everybody go before her, they couldn't see the mental side of her! She was mental, not on drugs. The story is worse something she can not get over.
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Seven
Distant fade away countless cunning facts of life from un-stability. The vents are closed, no really , to her avail, the fathom of her brain not releasing tension. She can not believe the non-ability to express herself. Her shutter speed slow. She can't get across herself. Unable to lose herself. Jarred up. Lid in place. Screwed on tight no air no holes. So it's back to the beginning before life ever existed, in womb again, in mother. She wants to be there once again and never come out.
Phlegm in lungs, stuck in chest throw it up, hot nightmares decompress her morning, she crossed the line last night fighting the strong hiatus. Her body lies under the covers, again again, afraid of everything, jolting electricity. Going nowhere. She is not thinking, I am nothing. I come out, I have to save her, Again and again where are we going, she speaks of things not knowing where we are going, what we are missing. Killing our dreams one by one, still decompressing.
We are missing, we are gone from everyone, everybody. Strenuous behavior to and fro the back of the mind between each other all day in and out. Night after night. Between the same vessel. Between the same entity. Breath in breath and out the mucus. Forget about the past we do. About the everything in the way. Childhood days, the dried creek with frogs that never existed, the family trip that never existed, and where would the tadpoles come from? If the plain was a plain and there no water?
The Rockets were real. The Family, All five to the field of the high school, The children Middle brother Andy, Biggest brother Aaron, Little sister Kelly, with there own, rockets color coordinated, Red, Blue, Yellow. They all made them with their father in the garage hobby room from a kit, and launch them in the field. Kelly's went missing in the navel weapons station across the fence. That's what she remembers, and the weather, the weather , always the weather the clouds always at their best, the sky's blue. Back then the blue was prettier than it is now. The clouds were brilliant with depth never believed to believed real. The blue had no name, it was just brilliant, and glowed deep into her hole. The clouds filled a void, still do.
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Eight
Back to the some things haven't been spoken about, ego fluctuates, big ego dissipates, lost her job dog walking. Lost her inability to face the world at arms up. If you may have noticed, The Forward motion has bit ceased, and she is gone I speak of me, and I or maybe me, or we, It is so difficult to keep track. Unnamable people inside twisting her gut, right now, they are in her minds eye darkening dilating her pupil trying to get out, and get what they want, but can not vent. hurt's and so lonely, need to get up and pace but cant must protect the pen and paper. Paranoia is what it is, she found the answer.
Stalking each corner the ghosts of every person you ever knew, every bloody kiss, every bloody fuck. Every shit, every piss. Every beer, every drug you ever took. Every time you ran, every time you were stuck. Every impervious conversation, every vulnerable situations. Every haunt. Names stuck guarded dedicated happenstances built blown up in your head in molten rock the center of your head.
Static ,the thumping, the heart racing, being again a punch at must, yes the rust is welting to a mush through the body, the chest, the paranoia is not well, she is not well decides nothing, punching in the chest really, head is o.k., body is not. it's all in the heart holes the size of the west coast, holes the size of of a hole you can think a hole imploding the inside your body, feels like the opposite an orgasm. Thats how it feels, paranoia. Mania coming on, Pacing back and forth, nothing can pull her back, nothing,
Vile circumstances of mania. take a panic pill, cant feel anything but this hole. The pills don't align the mind. Decompressed body aggressive against itself, banging bang against itself, banging inside, exhausted pressed down assuming to never stop ever.
She doesn't seem to contradict herself anymore, lost in the majority, no one to circle her movements, no one to watch her facial features while facing the wall to the windowless window. Shade drawn peek no more in solitude for it is the best to get back together the memories or go forward you tell yourself. get stronger, but darker the consequence.
Follow the tracks again. Jump in front of the train. Congested qualms of out and ongoing suicidal thought, pill bottles staring in the minds eye but your brain too smart. Bodiless bodies, nameless inside her soul, inside the hole. Dropping off the story told so loathing, drop off the feelings other bodies contradicting contemplating the demise, she is awake keeping everything alive. The nonsense of it all, bipolar mania ruining everything, a regular life of non wallowing. Slander-murmer-decay.
The rest is none, the rest the arrest is there the belittling still there fresh in her mind, the straight chairs the woman, the ugly face the ugly of the woman, blonde hair scraggly -gouge her eyes with that pencil, call me a baby one more time fucking whore so her demise. She picked me out, she picked me, I am so special the day of her boring morning shift she must be evil the morning shift of her day, she must have a boring day ahead of her ugly face.
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Nine
The outer body euphoria, the butter knees, the mud pain in the spine, ongoing restless morning wake up write it all down protect the paper which she fought the night before, panting freaks inside taking sides between the mother, the father choosing no one don't want to love anything, ever -anything -ever -see anybody ever. Don't want to love or fuck anything ever, be with anyone ever, chose between anyone ever. Don't want to leave anyone behind again ever, break a heart ever. Attach to another ever. The stretch of time, protrudes mania. remember names one by one, forget some, space and time is too long. Cant sync the beginning to the end. As she sits in the middle.
Wallow wallow always that word she does so good. Confessing her own piss and shit, bathing in it. Guilty as she does it always Guilty. Her body is guilty as she loves it. Behind the door. There was no prepping, she just does it, it comes in natural. Clean now, after though. must run away, decompress. A bipolar mess. Got to get running as fast as she can get her running she wants to be a muppet again .
No pungency like the beginning. No potency in the ongoing writing, keeping the reader reading, no hook, nothing. Too hourly the mood swings. She is a what if, always, what if this, the things are nothing, closed in a storage room, close to no one, meaningless, books, things, all her possessions, paintings, poetry, music, photos, furniture, everything. There is no end to to it, no end to the things, locked up. Why these things, no understanding. Locked in the dark with nobody.
Her precious things, static memories, holding her back from everything, hold, black, false, death, life, reincarnate, exorcism, gargantuan feelings. Holding back, can't visit on them, cant' belong, can't fore-long the inevitable life inside the deepness of the soul hole. Bitter friends, bitter lovers hold in the soul hole. Good people, evil people. She lives there, all her live there. Stagnate static swirls.
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Ten
Stream of rain are nowhere to be seen, through the door now, face down they are falling -falling where thou from the face horizontal the floor-ground then smash-ground the snot rub down with the fist like the sculpture of a hand that does not exist. Stiff arms , then kitty kitty to the rescue, hear her heart beat, no thats my heart beat in the shadows. Cat scratch me please i need to feel nothing but pain unless you can make it go away, paranoid again. Skit-so as they say. Perhaps the month is forty -one days.
Everybody is gone, she is gone again I am gone from my horrid life I can not progress, if I write this none the less sit here and remanence. Of right now, of days long gone, of no one- of no one. Drenched, Dyeing in the pouring rain, my fist is a sculpture now bleeding cement. Sapphire eyes -compost. Eclectic, harmonic Falsetto, rambling. Virtues demonic, methodically grainy. Internally hoist. buried. I will be silenced, i will. You will. We all will. When we die, we will be silenced. I write words.
Not false, real words from somewhere, they come out the head they do, I said to the others' they do not understand, think it gibber jabber stabbing at them in the head can't take the words that i say, that she said. They shut her out like a fly buzzing about. They'd like to swat her if they could. Not false words at all, Not a diary or journal no, a pad a pen to gouge the letters in ink stain the white tree. Feel it out, what ever it is.
Higher power she never believed in, she came home as a child with questions of God to her father, his answer, "don't ask me, I can't answer a silly question like that." Atheist, a learned living. Agnostic I guess, although an upside down cross now tattooed down the back of her spine. An exact thing a sixteen year old girl would do to get attention from her father. Her mother saw it, said "you know Kelly has a cross tattooed on her back" I said, "yeah, but its upside down", his reaction was, "well at least its anti-religious" He hated tattoos and that's all he had to say. No one was mad in the end no one was happy.
Atheist is too far fetched though to say, she believes in haunts, she believes in not ghosts necessarily. But spirits evil and in harmony. The suicide of her her friend changed things too. She doesn't see him but knows he is in a blue heron crane from the transient trail where they graze the canal and where he not so politely shot in his skull. Forevermore they slowly fly and cross over her while driving in her car.
They put a fence around our tree, one our old haunts, they wiped it away, you would say. Remember that morning we watched the sunrise I had been up for a few days. You said it was o.k. you were non judgemental, always had been, I guess back then you had the gun, since 1997, you've been plotting against yourself. And somehow later I am angry, but a little jealous. Couple years later you come back, disheveled, walked out from your job come back to California to end your life. You sentimentally had your way with with your things you people.
Beneath my soul...You were all I really knew, and you left me behind, with words of weird kindness. Which will die when I die. It's not happy yo say, I believed in you. Again and again, you make me contradict myself, with your adorable pigeon toe standts. And my life is so shady. Just beneath my soul I don't know anybody. Your words too weird at the end. I don't know if they will die actually. Why did you say it all to me, there were other people who wanted to see you that night. You talk alone to me in the bathroom. Again and again, you make me contradict myself, your pigeon toed standts, and my life is so shady. Just beneath my soul, you were all i really knew, and the you left me behind, with weird words of kindness. The las night I ever saw you, you almost left your gun in your bag in my car, when we said our good-byes. If only, but you remembered, Christmas always tainted.
Dear Duncan,
You are telling me not to die, and it sucks,-because I want to die. You are dead. I know to listen. I know to listen to you instead. I didn't listen though before you plotted against yourself,-gun against your face, -bloody mess. Blue heron's wont erase the memory. Transient trail, willow pass canal lurking your soul. I know to listen to you. You are dead. know you were against the living, -but you knew I could take it, -face it, -take care of myself. And underneath the pressure you always knew me internally. You know me as a woman,- as a child,- Kelly Rice, -Andy's little sister. And all though you miss me, with some other people perhaps, I don't want to see you. All though I do miss you more than ever. And right now for sure I know... You see it's weird. I am in your shoes right now, Duncan, -thirty one years old -also with a storage unit, -no where to go.. But it's different, you and me, me and you. Now. There is complete knowing, -complete knowing, - complete knowledge, - complete knowhow. I don't want to die like you. I want to thank you forever here, where I am, where I am, for the fucked up gift you took away from us. I love you Duncan Wood-Walker. I love you. Forever and always. I love you.
Love, Kelly
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Eleven
Razor blade hits the glass so it doesn't dull the blade. Cuts into skin so perfectly. Forgot the book. Heaves her soul, take this -take this -take that. Down and out. Going this way, cant stop the feeling I love it the feeling. The depths of your own mind inside the corners, even though it still doesn't come across. The image the eye inside the cement of the skull the vent of the minds eye. The brick I am in the cement, the chimney, the vent closed wont let me out. The chain round the clouds attach my mind pull me through the vessel, clean through the air. Strap let go, I can be like I was. She now rests in sight her face pale blue in the light fancy. She is lonely. She is lonely the pale blue is pale like pale, it greys her eyes a grey the clouds can't grey.
The outside un-claustrophobic to the body, where is she going with all this, A happy feeling, is this a happiness, the chimney let her go, go play music, does she do it, walk on past the liquor store forget it. Pass it go on home play some music, bleed the fingers sober. Happiest. Coffee so delicate, no memories, but can write down the nothing. She gasps the sunlight distant spreads the light yawning dust exhaled habitual nonsense.
Not self loathing, not self loathing. Happiest morning, the clouds let her go from the chimney rise her above out the claustrophobic friends apartment, lead her home past the liquor store, to the coffee shop, back home to her guitar to start playing. To write love songs, whatever. Her kitty waiting, waiting impatiently. Let her out into the day, go kitty go.
The leaves so perfect a mess. the wind so perfect a mess, flaunting. The tree down-sloping, her hair out of time. jolting. bewildered by nothing now, oh no can't stop the thinking, the buzzing in her toes the angst oh no, she panics, no. happiest feeling gone to the gutter with the soap from down the street car wash. Guitar still, inside, manic. Manic is good when guitar playing, and happy too, and sad whatever it never matters. nothing cares. It doesn't matter.
She can remember when her head exploded in a nightmare. It was like an acid trip gone bad. She was living in an In-law unit. The wind was knocking. She was falling asleep the kind where you know you are falling. She felt from the inside her head something large igniting like it was the center of the earth almost reliving a mushroom trip from her previous teenage years. But very very different. The inside her head brightened light light inside she saw then happening exploding where you can't wake your self up then she died and panic wake. The most fucked up one yet she noticed. There were others every time the brink of sleep she try's to write songs about it. Death. When she try's to fall asleep the worst feeling ever.
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Twelve
Now it is I can not say anymore the liquid does not pour anymore the pain in the stomach you can not feel only in time you will neil on your knees like a fantasy you wish you could feel the ache of paranoia the life forward brings the hills the colors don't do anything gouge again I hate everything. You don't listen. I don't listen. They talk again and again, the owners of everything the witness can't say anything locked in her bubble breathing silenced. And nothing makes sense. The words at will, pad and pen. He loves her like this mad in the face, mad in the mind , feelings persist, and why, she must not die, without a painting, without a song, up and down strokes again and again.
The stream of sex feels good. This time orgasm high in the head. In the eye it goes the stream it does. He said he hates her, but down below there is love. Slide the tree trunk in protrude it out and in get on top fuck it hard bounce the tits. Rice high and higher the panic done.
She feeds her depression with depression, she feeds her her tears with crying. SHe feeds her desires with melodrama. Like the song says "First you love me, than you hate me, thats o.k. for fools" Boring bores she hates a bore.
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Thirteen
Following the dream isn't what it's like it use to be. There is nothing for me to look forward to, and that isn't just me who has thought this. It has been a shared thought. You have said it. We have said it together. Haven't we now. Destiny isn't fate, fate is pointless. Who cares what they say, you know what is real, and nothing can stop it. Negativity. Positivity can out do it. That is what the doctor says everyday, trick your mind, you can do it. Think positive, exercise, keep the blood flowing. take your bike ride, just do it.
Just do it, ugh! And you go, forward motion, how you do it, you don't know, the mind doesn't speak it just goes. Dancing works like this when you practice enough, you don't think you just move it. Of corse bike riding, so they say too. And swimming, but that's not true. She's learned from experience. But on her bike ride her mind repeats "why am I on this thing, why am I on this thing, why am I on this thing, why am I on this thing" forward motion, "how did I end up hear, where am I going?" But keeps going. Enjoying nothing.
Deranged facts at the coffee shop, she stops to ponder. Boring coffee shop, all that matters. Look at the body's, count her in, mite as well but her ego, her ego counts her out. All though she hates herself. Count the slob's. Pick them out, count her in, ride her bike back home. Forward back home out the coffee squad.
Open the garage, the half garage, the sawdust blows out dump the bike to the side, pull the paints out. Gesso a scribbled old canvas, dry it out in the sun, wait it out. Pick only the Black, Magenta, White, and Burnt Umber out. Dark landscape today, the sun shining out, so sick the boring summer cant get the head on straight no wonder the depression. Hates the summer, the wicked boring no clouds the boring blue sky, all day in, all day out, no clouds to shout about. Why live. What to write home about.
She remembers things in clouds. Emotions. The times when things happen. Anything. How cold it was. The leaves, how many there were on the ground, if any. How much dew was in the grass, or on the roof tops that morning she stayed awake all night. She remembers in the clouds the day she went to school kindergarden first day. She remembers the clouds following year first grade. First field trip to Point Reyes. She couldn't live with out them. But who couldn't.
There's nowhere to go and my body wants up. Can't take the mediocrity or the lows, or the fixation of rejection, or objection. Rings around my neck, sun burns through my pant's, garbage lines my mind , I am pathetic, falsehood, breaking things, other peoples manhoods, digging deep in the one thing I shouldn't. Going down one day for everything I've ever done to everyone I've ever know. Heartburn in the full metal jacket, size up the young promiscuous behavior ,some still acquaintances, some enemies. There's no where to go, cant take the mediocrity and the lows, the fixation of objection, breaking things of manhood. Ashamed of everything I've ever lived for, every dream I've ever gone for. Decaying heart feeds my veins now where to go but up, but low is where I go, feels a hole of thousand holes inside holes.
Dried crackled hills ignite fire in my body, the rows horizontal, parallel, fence curled up focussed large then small. Bushels of green scattered about. Eucalyptus trees poison the earth below, their bark bare, smooth, beautiful, marble. The breeze blows voices through their long low leaves, the traffic down under sound like I'm at the beach. The color of the grey gravel doesn't look grey, but lavender from the overcast sky this lovely morning. The hill tops are fired up with weeds dried and cracked calling out to me.
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Fourteen
On a Cloudy day I like to go cloud chasing, I get in my cloud chaser car and go racing with my camera and go towards the colors, And time is against me panic in my knees I go racing through the street, find a spot, hear the birds hovering, and I'm not alone anymore, I feel the mystery around the corners of the streets, I drink my coffee, like it's my last coffee ever to be delicious. And before I see everything colors so heart-wrenching I couldn't have a care in the world. Me and the clouds having a private discussion, about love and affection and I never want to die.
My hand Can identify with the camera I have klutzy nature tears in my eye I fall tumbling over what ever i tumble over, though i don't care clutching my camera, pointing the clouds i grab the shot of the purple cloud cover. And the dusty leave that do not lose their leaves yet, they grow their blossoms. My clouded mind in the clouded sky, I love the foggy desire i love the panic feeling of nature. The scribble ground of weeds the scribble ground all over.
Across the street Black garbage bag stuck to the fence, violent wind ripping it sleek plastic to shreds leaving trails of unwanted garbage. People stomping around in their gardens, in the morning. The mountain peak peaking in the landscape behind the neighborhood stuck forever. It should be quiet here now but the bulldozers behind clipping the rocks grinding the mountain slicing the rock for gravel to start the cookie cutter process around the world all over.
Demonic statues inside poking around inside my body . faith is banished, hallow statues, ceramic. going at it manic vibrating. justifying their presence. They use to be babies. She never knew. They were here too long ago. Inside my body. Rebirth. The brain got hurt from fathers sperm. Mixed with mothers egg. Then the life she grew up to live. She learned to traumatize herself. She ran around not just falling in love with everything, but denying it ,all the time in wrong doing, justifying
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Your manic at the most, you love to look in the mirror, at yourself, don't lie you hate your face, but you love to look do not lie. Get the facts right, the shadows you get right in the light, you look good with them dim maybe. The toilet looks good when you shit it in it, don't lie, you can't lie about life's facts shut your mouth then.
And doesn't silence exist, it doesn't, not even when when you keep your mouth shut, you hear your voices mad in your head inside your head, not distant, doesn't matter what they said, what they said last. Everything persisting outside your door, your last words, the mirror hold in your last facial expression your mind wont hold out your last vocal expression like a prison. The mirror connects my body with the voice and connects my ear to the face with my god inside myself telling me sins of every lie I've every said , I've ever heard from my voices lurk.
Can't break free from the dying world. Outside the seasons change but they are lists inside my room X'd out on the calendar if even remembered. Pot can factor. And out door experience yonder the cloudy day with a camera.. A life screw everything the voices could do nothing ado.
I can't bury the wishes, can't bury the voices, I sit and wallow in my heart, following nothing I gain in my heart, in my life, saying all i know. The dreams are dreamless now. Shadows are lonely. The joy is joyless of corse, coming from me. They call from nonexistent walls they are inside the rooms with me all along, stagnate along i know i always say. I feel their presences my bodies. The wallow with me. They want me nothing.
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Sixteen
There's an incubating vacuum of thoughts rattling ups and downs that are far and between fatality of flatlining to a non steady shake of pacing back and forth I can not get back in bed the thoughts they rattle the pen scribble scrabble can not read and sit or really think of what they say. In my own head again, am I me again, who will ever know, I will never know, I never know who I am ever I guess. Am I floating I will never know yes perhaps the writing goes as the present sits in my lap finally I can talk to myself truthfully. Gasp.
The world doesn't stop, I love the manic. But do I , I do not know anymore except I love the smell of it, the smell of the inside of myself. There's nothing inside me that can write. nothing but this smell that wont go away, this smell that is inside my body. I'm not sure where it came from, where it's going. Why it's still here. Why it's inside my body. Is it death, feels like it sometimes. It's not life, that I know, or maybe. So what is this smell inside me. Every which way I turn, every which person I go to I smell the same thing. It is almost a burning wood chip smell, burning, but not hot, neutral. No one I talk to can smell it on me, its all iI know. It smells bad, but good because I'm fond of it now. When I breath in, it is different than when I breath out, it is more intense the feeling I feel. I don't smell anything else around except the insides of myself. And when it goes I believe i will lose. And nothing to write. Or maybe something better. Something better will come. But who knows. I never do.
Customize the power I have over myself, it is over baring, it is an alter ego maybe, but I'm all alone. It can get scary. Something happens. Someone dies. It's not a person, just something inside of me, something empty comes alive. Fear is hear, like a paranoia, it is me. I am paranoid. Is it the past lurking, I don't know, someone is holding it it for me so i can escape and write this all down. But nothing will get me down. Nothing will stop me now. I can not shake this feeling, let the past reflect itself onto someone else inside myself. Get the gut rip it out. Take this emptiness, take it out.
Temperament to lost things, anything. Temperament what is it. Decongestant lost memories. Imbedded. Gouged in the eye forever. Swallowing. Stuck. Paralyzing. Foreclosed. Temperament. What is it. Passed on like everything. God damn it!
Hurry past the person who hates you. Why. Go up to them ask them why they hate you. When they say, "I wrote you a ten page letter, explaining why I don't want to be your friend anymore." and you say, "I didn't get the ultimatum letter you've been sending to your friends sorry." Then she say's "Well I don't want to be your friend I'm not talking to you." Then you go crazy on her. Because you already know why she hates you. SHe thinks you are crazy, and she doesn't understand you. But what she doesn't get, that giving an ultimatum letter to a friend is a crazy thing to do So she screams at her. "YOU THINK I"M CRAZY< YOU ARE CRAZY. YOU FUCKING < CRAZY! " But she was really hurt. And she went even madder in the head and went manic. "YOU ARE THE CRAZY< ONE YOU CRAZY< FUKING BITCH CRAZY< CRAZY
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