I knew she wasn’t what she claimed by the sad sick eyed look on her face that had leaked its way down to her veins, or more like the lack thereof. Deep open gashes that had once served as the life givers that allow oxygen to reservoir throughout like a fast tide had become the cesspool of forgotten aspirations and children she no longer felt the need to lie to and say she wanted. This was the nature of the beast, an Argentinian beast that hailed from a dilapidated town that smart minded compassion ridden nerds sought to save said girls from and never could, but would damn near die trying to no avail…..she knew the look. She knew the familiarity of these things for she had been living dogs days for as long as she could remember.
Dog days made up not the years lost but the ones you counted down to the day, down to the bone down to the last abscess that would provide the last and final crater you couldn’t bring yourself to look at in the daytime, nor the fuck that made you well last night. These were all the things that were instilled instead of cookies only in the oven for no longer for 12 minutes or else they would burn, so much for those hand holding moments that would never come. But Goddamn she sure wanted them to. She held hands, just not the important ones, but the ones that would decapitate her into a mental cripple. The smell of a wanton life as almost as the smell of a successful one depending on the contextual peppering of humility coupled with an arrogance that is rooted in a fear that only junk provides. She taught her all of these things; Isabella Sarli on a bender of incestuous arson ridden soul sucking qualities that would be heard in a well over grown with prehistoric fossils; with not one but two kids intact, or juxtaposed at best. They were alive when she turned, maybe not so much when she completed the circle….
A dark blue light was better than a red one. That meant calm tranquil hotel rooms with limited fucking, red lights meant smaller 4 walled rooms with stainless steel toilets that she would kick in again and again and again..
As she shot in her own diseased corner of the ditch, she couldn’t help but think that maybe not exactly in the full moon type 2 hour long saga ridden independent film sentiments aside maybe her Mom was shooting in the same diseased ditch. Funny what we choose to make acceptable in order to feel normal and Hallmarkish, rationalize the most outrageous sort of non-sense, that’s what the 12 Step literature would tell her years later and she would recall with regret that she hadn’t taken that one to the bank and had opted out for the park instead….and we all know what happens in the park. It’s a story, not a snowflake one in the cynical sense but a story nonetheless, mine to be exact. You don’t want to hear and I don’t want to tell it, but here we are making believe that you will wash it out with the tendencies of the next day’s road rage and passive aggressive supermarket line debacles; but we both know you want really; but I’ll tell you what sugar, I’ll tell you what,……I’m gonna sleep good tonight knowing that another wish has been blown and you will have to look me in the face next time, and I’ll meet you dead on. Dead fucking on; your turn not to sleep.
