The One Hundred

The lights are off and the room is spinning. I am as drunk as I have ever been.

I’m kissing someone, and I’m sure that I’m doing it badly. You can only expect so much from someone with so little practice.

Especially with so much vodka in one’s system.

I lose some time and clothes are being pulled off.

I lose some more time and we’re both naked. Skin is sticking together and I’m moaning because isn’t that what you’re supposed to do. Her fingers are in my pubic hair, high up in the slit.

I lose time and we’re 69ing and she’s either got big fingers, I’m extremely tense, or she’s using more than one finger.

I lose time and I’m eating her out.  Wet slapping licking noises and her moans, gasps. Lots of them, and I’m grinning.
I lose time and all I can do is smell.  Pussy and sweat, not dried but still fresh and pungent.

It’s four am. My two best friends are across the hall, waiting to ferry my partner back to her vehicle for me. We cram into my absolutely tiny bathroom, the both of us, and shower. I think we manage to touch less there than at any point during the evening’s festivities.

When I am sober, I don’t find her that attractive. She’s relentlessly loud, and I don’t like her company for long periods.

Drunk, she is a warm body who is willing to touch me. Someone who I can pretend cares.

She leaves, and the parting is mildly awkward. I don’t care. I’m still falling down standing up drunk.

I go to bed, and sleep the sleep of the dead.

How do you trust someone? How do you tell someone something and accept that they will understand what you mean, and understand… just understand.

I have had trust issues (and god, do I hate calling them that. It puts me in mind of young girls who are mad at their friends or something similarly immature and temporary) since I was young. Elementary school young.

No one knows everything. Telling one person everything about myself feels dangerous.

Not the sexy dangerous of a stolen kiss, or touching someone. The dangerous that could kill me.

I started therapy this semester and I don’t think it’s doing me any good because I can’t trust my therapist. Because trust is dangerous.

The last entry was the first really true sentiment on this blog. Because I can’t even trust a completely anonymous audience.

So how do you trust yourself? I can’t even express an opinion because I honestly can’t commit myself to a side. I don’t trust myself to make the right decision. Not even for myself.

People ask my opinion, and I say I don’t care, because I don’t. I don’t have an opinion.

I don’t trust myself.

I don’t trust anyone.

People with depression are supposed to be good writers. Isn’t that the way it’s supposed to be?

I haven’t been fully dressed all day. Naked, underwear, pants. I’ll put on a shirt soon and find food. Comfort food.

My body tells me I’m hungry, but I have no interest in eating.

My mother always tells me, “If you can’t tell your five best friends, including your mother, you shouldn’t be doing it.”

But what happens when you don’t have five best friends? Or five friends. Or you don’t trust your mother. What are you supposed to do then?

She called today, mommy dearest. They got a letter in the mail. I assume it’s from the insurance company. It said that I was on Zoloft.

She called yesterday, while I was at counseling, and I didn’t call her back. It was probably about this.

Jesus, I wish I could have had just a few more days. Just a little while of peace before the walls come crashing down. She doesn’t understand boundaries. She wants to know what I talk about in counseling. She says that it’s the people I hang out with, the GSA and VOX that are draining all my happiness.

The people that I haven’t seen all year.

She says that I shouldn’t get pushed into using drugs to fix my problems, that I have to fix it myself.

Nevermind the fact that I asked for them. That they were never mentioned until I brought them up.

And let’s ignore the fact that I spent every waking minute, before I started on the Zoloft, thinking about ways to kill myself. I couldn’t look at a knife without thinking of the blood on my skin. I couldn’t drive down the street without thinking of smashed metal and broken glass. I couldn’t take a pill without thinking of taking all of them.

Forget that I almost had a panic attack walking into my first counseling session. That I can’t touch someone or be touched unless I have enough alcohol in my bloodstream to black out for long periods.

If she had known that it was going to do this to me, she never would have sent me to college.

And oh yeah, did I steal that package of cookie dough that she didn’t want me to take? And if I didn’t steal it, did I purposely hide it? You know, because I’m bitchy like that.

It’s 2:14 in the morning and I’m awake. I’m supposed to be up at 5:30 to get ready to distribute a little underground paper I write for.

I’m up because everything hurts. This happens sometimes. It used to be, when I was a little kid, after I’d been swimming a lot. I’d spend a few days clutching a pillow, miserable.

I can’t lay back down, because it gets worse. Bad enough that I couldn’t even masturbate. Can’t sleep, can’t fuck. Waste of a night.

I had a family reunion in Canada this weekend. I’m sick, so I spent the whole time hopped up on codeine laced cough syrup.

Needless to say, I had a blast.

I got back late last night and was taken out for ice cream by JM., along with Annie and Ryan and Joe. It was good times. I fell into bed around midnight.

Slept until 8 this morning and dicked around before my psych exam.

After the exam I realized that  I was supposed to go into work today, and I forgot. So I skipped my night class to do that. Then I came home, finished Will and Grace season one, and started Six Feet Under.

I watched all three seasons of Top Chef back to back, so my appetite is down to nil. I want pretty, delicious food, like I saw on the show.

In order to make that… I’d have to do dishes. My whole apartment needs to be cleaned. Top to bottom. It’s a sty.  I have beads all over, and ashes on my desk. Clothes strewn from one end to the other. Pop cans and used dishes.

You’d think I was living the life of a frat boy.

In other news, Annie hooked me up with a spot as a blogger for TeeVee Review.  All you invisible readers should totally go and check it out. I’m gonna try and put my first review up tonight.

I had a phone call with my mother this morning, and I realized that everything that I told her was true.

Except for the lies.

No, mother, I wasn’t at the computer lab, I was at counseling. Where I talk about the fact that I hate you, hate myself, can’t feel anything, and can’t sleep with anyone unless I’m drunk.

Well… we maybe didn’t cover all that this session.

My plans for the weekend (Mother Edition):

• Print Resumes
• Study for Psych test
• Do Homework
• Call Cuz. for birthday
•  Make list of things to take camping
• Make Christmas list

My plans for the weekend (actual edition):

• Masturbate
• Print resume
• Masturbate
• Go to interview
•  Watch tv on the internet
• Smoke
• Masturbate

Annie gave me It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia and I watched an episode and a half. Then I had to turn it off because it was so awkward that it made me want to jump out a window.  Other than that I’ve been watching Oz, and does anyone else agree that Adebisi is hot? And Cyril too. Jesus, if the man-meat is that good in prison, maybe I should tape down my tits and start passing.

And now I think I’m going to play the Sims, and make them do terrible things.