We as people often go back to the hurt places. We tease those hurt places like they're a tiger in a cage, and when they bite us, we act surprised.
I'd like to say that this Barbie right here is different, but I'm not.
I'm just as guilty as the next person, reliving the past, and relishing the hurt.
Even as I sit here, spinning the cap off the bottle of Johnny Walker blue-- these days, the booze, the cigarettes, the ideas are all free-- I find myself teasing that tiger again. Sometimes, I want it to hurt, because even the hurt is better than feeling nothing at all.
Sometimes I find myself tonguing a sore in my mouth, to the point where it doesn't heal. When it finally does, when something else has distracted me, I'm sad to find it gone. I miss the hurt. Which is pretty much all I need to say about my own fucked up character.
So, I spin the top off the bottle again. I spin it off, chase the last part of the day into the bottom of the bottle.
Most days, the bottle ends before the day does. Most days, I find myself still awake, watching the sky change from midnight to cobalt, to sunrise. By that time, most of me is at the bottom of the bottle. Too sober to face the day and too drunk to stop chasing the hurt.
I chase the day, chase the pain, smoke it down to the filter and bury myself in the past. I do all these things, hoping somehow that this is just one bad dream I'll wake up from.
There's no way that a whore like me can possibly matter in this world where rats are king. With that kind of logic, I think that it's best if the human race would just die out.
A prostitute, a post apocalyptic Barbie, for Christ sake. Even if I did manage to hold everyone together, to make this shitty town run again, what after that?
I somehow become a better person? Frankly, I don't see that happening. So, I chase the hurt. I chase it down to the filter, and down into that dark liquid that just clears my head enough for me to see what a colossal jam we're all in.