On 2.24.05 I decided to write in this more often for the kids back at home. As of 6.10.05 I decided to fuck it all and stop writing. On 8.21.05 I decided write in this again because I am bi-polar and can't make up my mind.
"I thought how easily you could kill yourself when you were drunk. Take a bath, fall asleep, drown. No turtle would come floating by to rescue you, no spotter plane would find you. I took my mother’s knife and played johnny johnny johnny on the playhouse floor. I was drunk, stabbed myself every few throws. I held my hand up and there was satisfaction at seeing my blood, the way there was when I saw the red gouges on my face that people stared at and turned away. They were thinking I was beautiful, but they were wrong now they could see how ugly and mutilated I was.
I pressed the knife to my wrist, drew it softly across, imagining how it would feel, but I knew that wasn’t the way. You opened the vein from top to bottom. You had to consider the underlying structure.
What was the underlying structure of this, that’s what I needed to know: Joey Bishop singing “Jingle Bell Rock,” pets sleeping in cots bolted to the walls, and beautiful women lying under men who ate three dinners in a row. Where children hugged broken-necked giraffes and cried, or else drove around in plastic Barbie cars, and men with missing fingers longed for fourteen-year-old lovers, while women with porn-star figures cried out for the Holy Spirit.
If I could have one wish, Jesus, it was to let my mother come get me. I was tired of sucking the sails. Tired of being alone, or walking and eating and thinking for myself. I wasn’t going to make it after all."