I think I only really like other heavy drinkers.
My family’s farm has become acres of dead grass. I watch the mosquitoes prick my skin but remain unfazed while I rock back and forth on the front porch swing. Bianca was my little sister, but now Bianca is a witch. Mom caught her summoning spirits after church today. She said Bianca was locked up in her bedroom, knocking on the floor, and whispering for The Devil to come up. Daddy prayed about it for a real long time,
then he chained her tiny wrists to a stake out in the front yard. Now my sister is yelling frantically from the middle of a giant bonfire. I’m trying to convince myself that she’s just singing. The flames lap their tongues in the air as they eat all the oxygen. Soon little sister’s lips will turn blue, and she’ll be devoured too. My father and uncle pour their jugs of backwoods-whiskey into the fire. The angels watch them from balconies in the clouds, and twist uncomfortably in disgust. Uncertainty is plaguing my brain like tiny tumors. My nose has started to bleed. There are little red dots beneath my dangling feet. Mom’s always got a handkerchief waiting for me, but I don’t feel okay with running into her arms anymore. Bianca isn’t screaming any longer, and the heat isn’t pressed on my cheeks like it was. Off in the distance, I see huge gusts of wind sweeping along these flat lands. The roar of that brown chaos is coming closer. Dust gets kicked into my wet eyes, and my family scatters for shelter. A crooked tower of smoke soils the white sky gray, and droplets of rain begin to streak the house windowpanes.
It has been storming for hours now. My mother is eyeing the bathroom mirror carefully to apply lipstick to her puckered lips as she prepares for Sunday night service. The noise of heavy thunderstorms will cover up any sounds I make as I sneak out of my window later tonight. The dogs won’t bark; they’ll be asleep in their house beneath the porch. My parents will be resting easy as their minds keep them believing they’ve done what was necessary. Back in town, floodwaters will raise caskets of bones to the surface from the cemeteries. Each wooden death-vessel will float along the rivers that were our downtown streets. By morning, all the town’s people will have ghosts waiting beside their beds.
But I think you got too into the things you find interesting when they locked you up in your house, or the way you locked yourself up in that house with the way you make mistakes and get caught because of minor details. like a taillight being out. and now i come over to visit and drink a six pack as fast as i can and go to the corner store and buy you cigarettes because you always tell sad stories in an exciting way. and we sit at your mother’s kitchen table and you blow smoke in a way that’s not in my face and you tell me how your boss probably touches the waitresses inappropriately. and now i won’t touch my beer, but i’m drinking from a new whiskey bottle and petting your dog’s head: feeling slobber and thinking how your mother’s place is a complete disaster. a pig sty. and i feel at home because of it. with the ants crawling along the kitchen counter. and the bacteria colonizing in the dirty dishes and sink water. i feel fine.
trailer trash. poor and free.
when you find yourself not saying anything to stop something bad from happening. growing apart from all the people that connected you to life in a way that felt right. the way you walk into that feeling of being on your own again just like you walk into spiderwebs in the summer’s sweat. your fate won’t come off. invisible threads cling to you.
Well, today was the day I found out that I didn’t get to join the 27 Club. I’m both disappointed and slightly relieved. Just sucks to find out I wasn’t as interesting and infinite as Kurt Cobain was by that age. Still, it’s kinda good considering I haven’t done anything particularly great in my life yet. I did think of a television plot-start today, though (think something similar to Seinfeld or Louie):
A famous comdedian has an audience member sitting at a back table who heckles and ruins the funnyman’s show by suiciding, via gun to the head, all over the club floor.
It’s a start. Anyways, miss you, Robert Johnson, Brian Jones, Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin, Jim Morrison, Kurt Cobain and Amy Winehouse. Chill with y’all soon!
Are there any chill ppl in the 28 club?
PS - If “On Not Getting into the 27 Club” is my title, should the ‘i’ in “into” be capitalized? I can’t remember school, y’all, and it’s bothering me. Oh well, I’m sure I’ve made worse mistakes in the actual body.
I’ve started sleepwalking again. I’m interested to see if I’ll do it again tonight. It’s always fun to guess what objects I’ll wake up with in my bed and what things I’ve rearranged in my room.
I woke up at 4am this morning with several things out of order in my room, and it really freaked me out because I didn’t realize I had started sleepwalking again. I had the eerie feeling that something had been in my house while I was sleeping. Demons, ya’ll!
- Pink Floyd (Band)
- Moonrise Kingdom (Film)
- X-Men (Movies, Comics, Cartoons)
- Coconut (Food)
- Songs by Bon Iver besides “Skinny Love” (Musician)
- Mustard (Condiment)
- Friends (TV Series)
- Andy Warhol Art (Artwork)
- Fish (Food)
- Babies (Creatures)