End Tay Part II

When I'm moody, I'm a force to be reckoned with. Unresponsive, yet shooting death glares with my eyes. I'm too apathetic to move any other part of my body.

My body. They like it. I cheat on Jason all the time. My dealer, Dave, he'll give me stuff for free when I'm friendly with him. Sometimes all it takes is a handjob. If I'm really desperate I'll blow him - ha, sometimes I blow him for blow. I wonder if that's why they call it that. It certainly feels like a job.

I don't know how I've stayed in school this long. The art program is unique, in that I only have to be productive for short periods of time (as long as those periods are before the deadline). A great work of art can be created really quickly. Like John Cage's 4'33", sometimes all you need to be is a great bullshitter, and you can make something out of nothing. If you're really good, you can even make it seem substantial.

Once I handed in a blank canvas. I spun some story about how it was tabla rasa, all of human existence before experience. It was the feeling before life and after death. Blah blah blah. She totally bought it and I got an 'A'. This was too easy.

When I needed to come down and I couldn't get valium, I'd use alcohol to rock me to sleep. The hyperactive euphoria that comes with a buzz would soon be followed by the warm, fuzzy feeling that comes with mild inebriation. I'd wrap myself in layers of intoxication until I'd slip into sleep, thinking of nothing and enjoying the silence.

After a night like that, there was a good chance I'd wake up feeling like hell. My mouth tasting like garbage and my head being sliced apart by sharp knives, I'd down a few advil (or T3's, if I had them) and hide under the covers until they kicked in. Sometimes I was in my own bed; other times I'd spent that time covertly trying to figure out where I was. Guys are too easy - they're always willing to bring you home. This is supposed to reflect poorly upon the girl, but I think that it says a lot about the standards of most guys. Today was a situation of the latter variety. I consider phoning the stud's mother. I think better of it. I consider hurling on his carpet. I refrain. Soon I am well enough to scrape myself off of his bed, and shuffle home to shower. I might be fucked up, but I make a conscious effort to not be dirty. I don't like the feeling of filth. I'm corrupt enough on the outside, I don't need to look like it too.