thursday, around 3 in the morning, i'm blogging about how i want to
kill myself. i have had a huge fight with my neighbor, gotten some disappointing
news from work, and been smoking too much pot, and watching "hostel"
waaay too much.
i had slashed open my hand so awful that the muscle popped up in between
the skin flap, as if i was squeezing it between my fingers, and white,
maggot-brained little nodes and a severed nerve took a shot to wave
to me and say hello...
blood is spurting, orgeysering everywhere, spattin' the new copy of
the LA Weekly, the one with L-ke Ford on the cover . . . hitting the
floor, flying all over the white shirt I bought in Chicago with Ally.
...they sent me over to the Northridge Medical Center to meet with
a team of skilled psycho-analysts and social workers. So i went there,
to the most depressing hospital waiting room I've ever been to. And
I waited. Six hours.