The other day I re-employed an old moleskine to scribble in the homework of antiquity's art & architecture. Flipping through with a weary hand, searching for an empty space to write, my memory reminisced long-gone travel plans, my senses revisited drug reminders in the form of weak encryptions, my eyes recalled speed-sketches of potential outfits, my wallet resented casual calculations (how to pay these bills with this balance while still buying these things), my brain remembered old enumerations of miscellanea--stores, songs, symbolic artworks--my heart resurfaced old feelings that I probably would rather not've felt again. Usually I burn (literally or figuratively) depressing historical records, but I suppose it is quite liberating to know of the shit I used to go through, the misery I used to feel, and that I no longer suffer in that way. So I'll keep this, as a reminder of me: one & half years ago. I don't even remember writing this disjointed mess, for obvious substance-tial reasons (high as fuck & slightly drunk), but here goes the abridged version:
May 16th, 2010
Brand new Bose noise cancelling headphones on, sitting up in Philippine Airlines Economy class shit. I'd much rather fly Virgin America or, better yet, Singapore or Emirates. But, at this point, the shittiness of PAL Economy seats hasn't quite hit me as I've already popped twenty Valiums & downed a beer plus a touch of caffeine via English Breakfast tea. I slept for a few good hours I'm guessing, listening to N.E.R.D.'s In Search Of... on repeat. Then I woke, saw that everyone else was mid-meal. One of the stewardesses with the dope oversized PAL scarf-bow approaches me ever-so genially [as they do]
& asks me if I would like my meal now. I kindly tell her I'll just have a cup of tea & a beer. Down the beer while I wait for the tea to cool down; I abhor burning my tongue. & then I go through the very inadequate-but-will-do music collection of the mini touchscreen in front of me & add some Diana Krall, Taylor Swift [no joke], new Timbaland, Rolling Stones, Regina Spektor, Feist, Black Lips, Lady Gaga, & Prince to my Playlist. Now I'm wondering if I should order another beer.. Hmm. & then I'm wondering whythefuck this pen is leaking all over my left hand & the fucking table when I'm actually writing with my right.
I found a note, well three separate notes stuck in the back pocket of this Moleskine book. They were written on one of the PAL emergency vomit bags. I often use those for writing on planes cos I usually forget any type of paper or little black books of my own. The last time I wrote in this fucker was last April  when I had just arrived in Barcelona; Europe for my very first time, & I felt the need to write about the awkward feeling I felt being there. So anyway, back to the emergency vomit bag notes.. I read them over, each twice. I wanted to cry,
but I'm sick of crying on airplanes. I'll save that for the flights back to LA; my home away from home that often is akin to Hell. I won't lie. Flights toward Manila, I either feel neutral or scared. Scared to overdose. Always. Even though as of lately I've been trying to do the aforementioned several times. But the comas were only short-term & friends always make things better. & I honestly don't know why they care about my mess-of-a-gal ass anyway. Whatevs, I just need to be thankful that people do actually care & keep that in mind at all times. I'm still freaking out like godknowswhat about admitting to my parents the true extent
of my suicidal thoughts. It's hot as fuck in Manila right now so of course I can't go rockin' long sleeves everyday to hide the scars. I told my parents, whom I've not seen in four months, that what I will tell them will break their hearts. I have the hugest heart ever, & personally I find it to be a flaw. I care too much about others. One cannot be selfless all the time, it's just not healthy. Utter selfishness is healthy neither, but it really is necessary at times--solitude. I feel like LA people are incapable of grasping this concept even the tiniest bit.
They seem to have this addiction to always having to be social & surrounded by others. Though it may seem otherwise most of the time, I really do enjoy & furthermore savor those few moments I can get alone. I'm looking at my wrist, the cuts are horizontal but I was way too close to vertical one too many times last week. &, at that point, I really didn't give a fuck because my plan was to use the blood to write on my wall: I AM A FUCK UP. Then just lie & fall deeper & deeper till I could fall no more.
I hope I get better..
How cheesy was that ending?
A year & a half later: I'm beyond better & much less emo.