2004-08-02 - 10:07 p.m.

what do you get when you combine powdered fiber, 2 packets of emergen-c, green powder, and a shot of flax?

a powerful bulemic-lovers cocktail.

shit it actually tastes pretty good.

*what* is going on with me. lizard says it's premenstral hormones.

the cocktail is the softer option to throwing up, which i've been pondering all night. it's just been years. and i don't want to feel *that* feeling tomorrow morning. that sad, guilty, worthless, shameful, slightly broken sensation.

i want to make choices of progression not regression. i want to walk forward and not damage myself so low that it's impossible to get up. and yet that seems to be allll i want to do. is punch myself down low enough. so low down the well, that i can barely see the light above. down that moldly, cold barren deafly quiet space where all else can be forgotten.

that was such a maudlin moment. maybe i am just menstral.

god damn straight flax seed oil tastes so fucking horrific. punishment enough. for those of you without these "issues," it's like pounding a strong swig of bad olive oil.

i'm all for me getting on med's at the moment. i want to see if it helps. i want to know if i can get out and stay out of this resistance on my own.

i remember myself this way. this is how i've been for years. my pride just hid it very well. and now i care less about the pride. now i genuinely would like to support myself with a career and not just have red ribbons to show others. i'd like to be that balanced person that runs after work and eats greens and dates normal guys and doesn't sleep with them right away.

or at least i want to run off and fall deeply into strange eccentricities of artist living. i want to fall off from the world as a tortured artist. but in that senario i would leave the country and disappear and actively disintegrate. i would enter the womb of the opium dens. i would raise chickens in a small dusty village. i would slaughter them for clients. i would never speak. but i would create. and i would take walks by the moonlight at night. i would sit on my porch and read book after book in silence. i would buy bread from the baker three doors down and trade cheese for a chicken. i would get comfortable then move to marakesh and run a brothel. i'd be called bad mutha and i'd make a lot of money and i'd start a ring of illegal jem trading and i'd drink hot tea elixir concoctions at a small wooden desk on the second level of a building overshadowing a busy street. watching the people below, each of them thinking how everyone must see it they way they do. each of them busy with the thoughts consumming them.

that is the plan anyway.

i really don't think there is a solution. i think almost all of us in one twisted form or another muddle mindlessly closer to our own person disintegration.

"uh oh, red alert, she's slipping back into a nihilist moment."

in other news, lizard ran into her old bff from childhood. she now has three kids from three different men and is facing jail again. dealing. the start of the conversation sounded like this, "bitch, youu look so goooood." etc etc. she defines vato chollo. rolled up in a camino with the tight metal steering wheel. at six this chollo's dad died of a dope overdose at a bar down the street. her mom converted to catholicism and when you enter the house you have to splash holy water on you and bow to a jesus statue.

these are venice kids. this girl ran the street. pregnant at 15. always in a house with a big, tattooed street vato, place packed, knocks on the door all hours for deals to be made. she's now clean three weeks.

i can't believe my little bff had such a wild ass past. i can't believe she's so passive and sweet now with that on her. they lived that movie thirteen, i always want to prowdly tell others how many schools she was kicked out of.

i think its cool. i wish, wished i would of rebelled. i wished i would of broke away and did anything different than being a hostage to my mom's depression.

there is this girl we all mutually knew. i might of mentioned already. she was dating. she seemed well. she drove to a hotel on the way to santa barbara and took a bunch of pills and drinks. she planned it all out really well. she said she didn't feel worthy of being here. so some hotel guy found the body of a younger woman stiff dead in the room, alone. it's just wierd to think of. the whole planning of it. it wasn't just balls out drinking, and an impulsive moment fallin in while she decides to take just a few too many of this and that. now i've done that. but i made it. already drunk. already coked all night with people i didn't know. then a pill here. a few more. a different pill to top it off. that was probably the worst night. that was my dangerous line. so far. but it wasn't "intentional". certainly wasn't very caring for my livelihood either.

what is that line crossed from passing thought, into planned, executed action?

connection maybe. if you are truely depressed, you are no longer connected to anyone anymore. and without connection to others, we can easily fall off into the selfish oblivion of suicide. if we are depressed we cannot connect, the more we cannot connnect, the more we sink into depression.

i've got a fully loaded day tomorrow which fills me with irritation that i can't just have my own way. i don't want to show up. i still want to hide! i've got to show some stuff to a stylist and i don't want to cuz i don't think i have enough stuff and if it's not all perfect, then i don't want to show it at all. then i've got three clients all across town from one another. yar. super yar.

i want someone to save me.