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12-23-01 - 9:45 p.m. Stop asking me why I'm using drugs. Stop telling me I don't need them. Quit pretending you have any idea what it's like to be me. Just leave me alone. Don't talk to me. I don't want to listen to anything you have to say, no matter what it's about. You all tell me I'm slowly killing myself, but when I offer to just cut my throat or shoot myself in the head for a speedy death, you freak out. Make up your mind already! At least I'm giving you the chance to say goodbye this way. Just leave me alone. I just want to be alone. I just want to die, slowly but surely, without any interference. And the worst part is, I know I'm gonna wake up tomorrow just as pathetic and alone as I am at this very second, and I'm gonna have to pretend I'm doing better for you and insist I'm fine when you ask me, and promise you I won't get drunk or take heroin or slit my wrists. And once I have you convinced, I'll log off, saying I have to go spend Christmas Eve with my family, and I'll snort enough cocaine to make my brain an electrified pile of mush and continue my charade for my parents. And when they ask why I keep sniffling, I'll tell them Justin gave me his cold, but I'm feeling fine. Smile big, maybe giggle a little. Say "Hi" to the neighbors on my way in the door, yes I will be going back to Cambridge. When? Oh, just after New Year's, I'd expect. I still have to pack, but you know me, the ol' procrastinator, hahaha...you too, have a great Christmas. Oh, God bless you, too! Okay. Buh-bye. And then I'll pat Merlin on the head and wipe his slobber from my scarred hand, push him gently out of the way, admire the tree in the living room�didn't Kellie make that snowman in first grade? I remember how much trouble she had getting the cotton balls to stay put! The aroma of Sharon's Christmas turkey will waft from the kitchen, but I won't be hungry. No no, cocaine decreases your appetite, and I've had a shitload of cocaine. But I'll force some white meat down anyway. Not very much, though, and I'll jokingly explain that I'm still digesting all the turkey I ate at my Thanksgivings. I'll have to sneak out at dinner at least once for another dose of powdered white euphoria, but hey, I have a cold, so it's just me going to the bathroom for a Kleenex. Close the door. Nobody wants to hear the sound of someone blowing her nose. Especially not at dinner! And when I emerge from the bathroom I'll be just as falsely spirited as before. And I'll finish up my meal and claim that Bryan and Justin are preparing some kind of special Christmas Eve thing at the apartment, no, Kellie, you can't come. Well, there's just not enough room. What I mean is, I don't think they planned on anyone but me. No, Leif wasn't invited. Look, if it's okay with them, I'll invite you over. I promise. Yes, I'm serious. Okay, thanks for dinner, Sharon, George. See you all later! And I will rush to my car and get home as fast as I can. By the time I'm home, the high will have subsided and I'll feel so damn depressed because I'll be in the "crash" phase. And I'll threaten suicide but I won't actually do anything, and I'll search around for my stash, and god dammit, where the fuck did I put my beloved opium derivative? But I'll find the tequila first. And I'll tilt my head back and suck down all that my one true love Jose Cuervo has to offer me. And then as the alcohol hits me, I'll stumble down the hall and find my stash, shoot up, pass out, and wake up on Giftmas morning. In Bayview I used to tongue my medication for days, sometimes a week or two, and then take it all at once to make myself pass out for anywhere from six to 20 hours. Moderation isn't really my thing. And of course none of that shit will happen tomorrow. I'm just talking out of my ass. It's Sunday.
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