Alcohol + Reality= Emotional Drowning

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I gave my best, it wasn’t enough
You get upset, we argue too much
We made a mess of what used to be love.
So why do I care, I care at all, at all, at all, at all

Going nowhere fast. We’ve reached the climax.
Were together now we’re undone.
Won’t commit so we choose to run away.
Do we separate?
Don’t wanna give in so we both gave up.
Can’t take it back. It’s too late.
We’ve reached the climax, climax.

The deepest Usher lyrics drown me…

Drugs? Wrong Answer.

I blog when I’m alone, and to no surprise I’m alone again. It’s been awhile but it is a familiar place. A place I used to find security in my own world. Now I find my head disturbing. The silence annoying, and thoughts that carry no weight of emotion, just a general sadness, what the hell…

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I started taking citalopram over a week ago. It’s hard to sleep, especially when you have to keep running to the bathroom for “the runs.” So I took off of work, let my body adjust to the new medication. I started eating pizza and foods to make me constipated, since the medicine wanted to act like a laxative. 

Everything was fine until three days ago, I felt more alert in paranoia especially at night. I kept thinking about the windows in the kitchen. Everyday our neighbor open them and every night I close them out of privacy. Now I don’t even want to walk past them at all.

I’m losing energy, I don’t even dance two hours a day anymore for the fun of it. I haven’t got out of bed today and it’s 7:04pm. Since I haven’t been to work, I’ve been saddened at the fact I can’t shop online, and have to envy pretty things on Instagram.

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My companion cut his arm up pretty bad last week and stayed home watching movies with me. We’d leave out for 3 hours to get food or more movies, unknowingly til yesterday. Yesterday I felt depression hit me right in the face. I wanted to be alone and let it swallow me in. Fighting takes too much effort sometimes. Let it run its course and it might give you a break to inhale and when it does, get back up. I’ve been inhaling all day, and I’ve only got up to pee. I’ve got my four necessities beside me: Cookies,  lip gloss, water, phone. I shoved two Sandies cookies down my throat this morning. I haven’t ate all day, not because I’m not hungry, but because I just don’t feel like it. The mind is a powerful thing. I didn’t fail, the drug did. My mind tries to convince me that I have failed, when I really just begun. And tomorrow, I will try again.

Who the Fuck Cares

I moved in with my companion shortly after my return from Jersey. It wasn’t planned. For a city so unpopular, the whole city of Pittsburgh would be booked almost every few days for concert this or festival that. Hotel hopping can not be done here. I tried to stay at the Days Inn on the weekdays and the Holiday Inn on the weekends. I paid every morning and had my favorite rooms. But when an event was going on, even the $300 hotels were booked.

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One weekend with my new companion turned into a 3 months stay. It was rough at first. I am so bossy, selfish and bitter in the mornings not even a Snickers could fix me. And I’ve tried! My afternoon starts with a fourLoko and a Black n Mild lest I’m at work, then I start with shots. Anyway, this in-between time before I become a drunken nuisance which seems to always be the result, this in-between time I am me from 2009. I am 18 again. My best friend is from Brooklyn, NY. Everyone thinks I act 12, I’m stupid and I’m high. But I’m just “green,” a virgin with a 3.8 GPA whose hypermania makes her emotions extremely intense. I’m bubbly, spontaneous, and ready to awaken every man old at heart to remember their youth. Remember the innocence, freedom and carelessness. You pray the feeling is contagious. Even if you never had that childhood, in this moment you escape into what some call “false sense of reality” but what I call happiness.  O it’s so so insane, when I’m up there I fill like I just
want to stay forever. So I take another sip or a shot. Another sip, another shot. Another slow sip, another suddenly angry shot. And whether I like it or not, I’m leaving that space.

My eyes are closed, I try to focus on the music. Focus on the music and stay there. Then at some point I do what I’m afraid to do. I look around and remember where I’m at. I’m not in Vera Wang gown, I’m in a stripper dress. I can’t wear this dress anywhere else. These people are not my friends, they will not remember me. We are all in our own bubble of joy. If we remember one another, it won’t be for anything “great.”  Why am I always fighting to be remembered. Wherever I’m at when I open my eyes, its all the same. The truth screams harshly, I can’t live like this. I’m screaming now. I’m worth more than this. Bastard wouldn’t tip me because I didn’t kiss him. I hate this shit. It will never be enough money. I want to live by the beach. Nobody cares. Nobody ever does. The same speech over and over. Only now I’m in front of my companion, who was just moments ago laying in bed at 3:30 a.m. and is now silently smoking a cigarette on the edge of the bed. He’s probably wondering how can she be so beautiful and yet so ugly? How can she be so full of life, yet so quick to dead everything? I used to ask myself these questions but who the fuck cares. I am who I am and this is apart of me. I can’t be mad over what I can’t change.

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But he can. And one night, he did. He cut my speech short, and screamed himself, “What’s wrong with you. You used to be confident. All you care about is money. You still made alot of money. I’m tired of this shit.  You need help!” He never yells or gets short with me. I think I was more hurt that at his face when he said I needed help, whatever it was, the next day I went to see the nurse.

I never like the words LOVE because people treat them like just words. But, I’m touched that my companion, really loves me more than I love myself. It’s scary.  Now when I give my speeches, and I get to the part No one cares, we look at each other, laugh at how we know I’m having a bipolar moment, laugh at how we both know its not true. Not anymore. The day I saw the nurse, I brought home a cake. I didn’t say, I love you. I didn’t say, I’m sorry. Without speaking, in more ways than one, he knew I cared.

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Same Ol Song

A  gentlemen’s club can provide a level of intimacy almost equivalent to a genuine relationship. Two key words: can and almost. It is the foundation on what a club builds on. Pretty girls get customers in the door. Witty, and connective woman keep people coming back.

During a dry season, they hire the same hoes back, add a few new girls and again our price value plummets, as the club reaches its sales. Am I surprised? No. Am I angry? Hell yeah, fucking right!
These amateurs are so happy to double a 9 to 5 paycheck, they don’t even see that they’re losing! I’m not as angry at the hoes because on night shift, I will get paid regardless. But lately, I’ve been hungry and ready to work. I want to see Paris next week and Greece next month. My hunger for life is growing and I can’t keep settling with seeing the same ol same ol, doing the same ol same ol, resulting in the same ol shit. My anxiety is getting the best of me. I’m ready to go right now. There’s just one tiny problem: I don’t want to work too hard.

I believe in hardworking America but everyone knows hardworking America works for “smart working” America. I rather work smart.

Stripping may be losing its value as admirable art. People are tired of being teased with what they can’t have, and are willing to forget their fantasy, for the quick satisfaction of every day life.  And in this case meaning sex. Strippers are doing more for the dollar. The same dancers who said they would not do “this and that,” are doing “this and that” and a lot more. All the hard work to stay in the game.

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Little do they know, their temporary profits will push them out, unless they pursue escorting or porn. Clubs work like seasons. And when the seasons change, their worth won’t increase because everyone already knows what they are worth. Can’t expect a high bid on something, if everyone has seen EVERYTHING it’s capable of. It’s smarter to just wait out the dry season, perfect your body and pipe game, then to give deals or “extras.” A lesson I learned from the “smart working” America. So I think I’m going to sit this season out. So if your a regular and you miss me, remember I still miss my check! And I still don’t do extras.

Besos,

@theblackmuneca