Tuesday, March 29

(Tell me why) I don't like Mondays

She is crashing the illusions into reality.

I dont know how to talk to you, if you don't listen. All of the sudden, Im a ten year old little girl again. Mother's drunk and father figure Frank is smoking in the library. He's not there. She's not there. I can't open my mouth. I scream, but the sound waves can't travel through the rivers of wine.

My back has always been exposed. Im yours to keep, yours to break down.
I don't have anything else than this. Like there's anything here at all.

I could tell you about the time I let Mr Sheen pull my hair in an LA bed, I could tell you about how he injected heroin between his toes. I could tell you I did the same. but you wouldn't listen. I could tell you about the time I bit pneumonia white so hard that I tasted her blood, or the time I fell asleep in Pneumonia blacks lap. But none of us would know if it was true or not. I don't know who I am, so how am I supposed to tell you?
The illusion is my reality, so if it crashed - it did so a long time a go.

Monday, March 28

Eat my flesh, watch me die

Woke up, blinked a couple of times until the nightly blur had disappeared from my eyes. Like dry lenses last nights smoke covers my pupils, it's a fog uneasy to clear. Next to me lays the girl with magic eyes. The one that makes me sleep. Fully dressed unlike me. I shyly cover my bruised chest with crisp white sheets and with much grace (or so it seems, but then again Im still drunk) make my way to the window. I grab the half full champagne bottle and empty it in three gulps. I almost choke trying not to cough. Light a cigarett, slowly inhale, stop, exhale while watching her eyelids vibrate. She sleeps so intensely, I bet she's dreaming.

Five cigarettes later, I still can't stop looking at her. This is what she does for a living. I pay her to do what I now can't stop doing. I watch, and then just before she wakes up I break down in tears.

She stayed with me the entire night. She fell asleep next to me.
She's my Helen of Troy, my Ansgar.
My hero.

Friday, March 25

What Ive learned

After three days on the floor, it doesn't really hurt anymore.
After four days, the crying stops. But when the fifth day comes and goes, that's when your hearts starts to grow roots into the floor. They grow with such intensity that once you try to break free, the only way how is excrutiatingly painful and ugly.

Sunday, March 20

It's bedtime for jokers

Things I wish she would do

Punch me on the side of my head, make my vision blurry
Lay down next to me and sleep
Drink wine with me and tell me more secrets
Let me hit her
Choke me
Kill me

Friday, March 18


Last night, acompanied by the beautiful smoking girl who knowns when to talk and when to shut the fuck up. I dont have to give her any instructions anymore. She knows me. I love her.

There was something missing though, something wasn't quite right so I couldn't get any rest. Sleep felt just as impossible as running in high heels when caught in a haze of plum wine and Tramadol.

- Why wont he come back and explain it all to me?
- Sometimes you have to change before things can go back to what it once was

I gave her a scissor, sat down on the cold hardwood floor and cried. She gently stroke my hair, kissed my neck and grabbed a fist full of hair. When it hit the floor, I knew we were on to something. She made me into something new. She turned my world around.

I stared into the mirror, tried to understand who the girl looking back at me was. She was like a ghost of a complete stranger.

If this doesn't make him come back, I don't know what will.

Tuesday, March 15

Retrospective and father figures

Last night was another pitch black picture in which I was left alone, with no help except the bottles of prescribed dreams. No girl in my open window, smoking and watching. Nothing to remind me that I am in fact a person, a human being. I was nothing but a ghost of a stranger to myself, a vision in the mirror that I didn't even recognise after two Demerols and three tramadols. Five pills and I float above my own body. There's nothing magical about it.

Managed to drift of, on the floor with Wallpaper next to me. Bed time stories for fashionistas. Models for company.
Frank spoke to me in a mist of dreams. He told me about the first time he saw me, Ive told you that story once. Outside our town house he came in his black car. Hey kid and so on. But then the dream changed, I was drunk in a bar and he was there. Sitting in the corner watching me, I said something mean not directly to him but meant for his ears and in the next scene I was falling slowly and just as I was about to hit the wooden floor he caught me, lifted me up and held me close to his chest. His heart was beating like a drum. I wanted to sing along but couldn't think of a single song. He kissed my forehead, and I woke up sweaty and with salty drops on my cheeks. I carefully licked my lips, tried to taste the dream but there was only dried up wine left.

I emptied the bottle next to me, washed down another Demerol and tried to haze off but couldn't. Instead I picked up the phone and within minutes I heard that familiar voice again

- Whats shakin', kid?
- I need you

Monday, March 14

The naked truth

I just don't know what to do with myself

1. He never shows, no matter how many drinks I have at the same damn bar
2. I can't read Little birds again
3. She couldn't come over last night. I couldn't sleep.
4. She doesn't answer her phone.
5. I wish I could throw up everything inside of me, and fill the gap with new organs.
6. I wish I could be something new.

Friday, March 11

What she left behind

There's not a problem out there that can't be solved with the proper medication. Im glad my mother agrees with me. There are pills everywhere, under her bed, in her drawers and closet. Keep in mind that she moved over a year a go. It's christmas everyday here for an oprhan like me.

Thursday, March 10

The love in her eyes

I feel as though Ive found some sort of new religion. Like Ive connected with a higher power. Suddenly Im able to sleep for six hours straight, no demerol or tramadol to make me haze of is needed and I have dreams again. Real ones not just hallucinations and visions from my past. I dream with such intensity I feel present while being in them. I can touch them.

When she's there, sitting in my window watching me move through veils of mystery and unknown worlds I feel at ease. The solitude that once was my permanent state of mind is now nothing but fade memories. By night, I feel like I belong. The by the hour fee is a small price to pay. Sometimes she tells me something, a short stories about her pimp or a bad drug related experience and I find great comfort in the fact that she knows exactly what it feels like. What everything feels like.

She's the most wonderful person Ive ever me

Wednesday, March 9

Stories and substance abuse

Little birds, come fly with me.

Another night of heavenly sleep. She sat there, smoking in the window just like I had done moments before. A mirror of some sort, a retro perspective of everything. She told me about her father, how they used to be close but that all went out the window when she started doing coke. Fathers seem to have a problem with their daughters once they start experimenting, don't they? In the beginning of the story she was a little kid, when I feel a sleep she was somewhere around her fifteenth birthday. I can't remember much about it. I need another hit, another story and another night of dead still sleep. I need her again.

Monday, March 7

Rabbits eat birds, dont they?

He is nowhere to be seen, I only have one option left. I read the book once more last night, every page meant more to me than the last time. Every word was a silent prayer. A desperate call for help.
He must have known I would look for him, he must have known me somehow.
He must have known what he did to me. Just like a rapist always knows how a no is a no, it's just that it doesn't bother him. It holds no greater value to him.

So I had five dry martinis in the bar, reading and crying. Bartender let me be. Not a word was spoken.

I walked down the same alley where I first found her, at least there's one person here who is consistent. A fist full of cash, a good night sleep for me. Knowing someone is watching over my uneven breaths. She leaves in the middle of the night, like a criminal she sneaks out. Last night she told me a story, my story. Just because we use cheats doesn't mean we're not smt.

Sunday, March 6

dreams and lies

Bungalow 8 should change their number to 9. Dante would have wanted them to.

I tried to dance, ended up sleeping in the corner couches instead. Acid and wine doesn't mix well.
Next to me a beautiful girl sat crying, mascara all over her pale skin. Like two rivers finding their way through a desert. When I kissed her she didn't object nor did she really get involved. Passive aggressive. I kissed her again, tasted her salty drops of salvation but she remained indifferent to weither or not I was there.

Later, I crawl down between cold sheets. Naked and alone.

- So I just sit here she asks
- Yes, untill I fall a sleep. There's money on the table.

I slept like a newborn baby.

Friday, March 4

Little birds and dead girls

I wear little birds around my neck tonight, will have dinner with Amanda and her new boyfriend at the Ritz tonight. Little birds around my neck. They're my company and if I see him, he'll know that Ive missed him. I carry little birds so that he will nurish my childish dream of being saved. I'll be waiting at the bar around midnight, he must be there.
There is no other option, A's going to bungalow 8 and I would rather have my heart ripped out.
And that just might be this nights plan for me. I'll take my chances.

Dress : Jill Sander (you've seen it before)
the birds used to belong to my grand mother.
Jacket: Primark, just for the hell of it you know.

Did you know?

Crying makes the employees of Sketch extremely uncomfortable.

Wednesday, March 2


Last night, third one in the same bar but still no luck. They say good things come in threes, I think maybe three is crused. Its not a couple, nor a group. There's no fucking balance in three. But I waited, with the book opened in front of me as a shield. Not in the mood to carry on a conversation with the bartender yet again. He mumbles something welcoming, poured a dry martini and smiled carelessly. I wish I could do that. I never smile anymore.

Five drinks later, the bar which Im alone in is closing and I feel more alone than I have ever done before. Not just alone, I feel betrayed/used/abused. What a horrible man he must be, building up something so beautiful and then leave it without a roof. I feel like the foundation of an amazing house, waiting to be complete. And it doesn't rain in London, it pours. Im all wet and he's not here.

Tuesday, March 1

Romance and nihilism

Went back to the bar last night, had read every page twice without finding an answer of some sort. Without finding anything. I wandered back, hoping he'd be there, praying for him to sit there like time had stood still. but once again, I entered an empty bar.

Same bartender, same drink. He lit my benson hedges and we connected. Theres no smoking in bars anymore you know. I wish I was dead.
Hours pass, gin pours down my throath. He must come, he must tell me why. I ask the bartender but he didn't know him.

- strange man, wasn't he he asks
- the most beautiful man Ive ever seen

I stay for hours, the evening turn into night and I turn into a very sad picture. Not moving nor feeling anything. Like a statue I sit there, waiting for a stranger to tell me what I need. (Aren't we all?)