debutaunt.com

The scar tissue that is my heart

So. What do you do when you have a really really important day coming up and you need to have your wits about you?

You get yer drink on and stay awake all night for no apparent reason.

You call your ex spouse and see if he is on his way to the airport. Since he's got your child and all. Fortunately he's awake and headed to the airport.

You search through boxes of your child's keepsakes looking for the CERTIFIED copie of her birth certificate, of which apparently you don't fucking have one. Not that they need it for her school registration or anything.

You drink 4 shots of Gingerbread men - which is Buttery Nipple with a hit of Goldschlager (and shit I know I didn't spell that right) at some bar.

You skip dinner and try to exist on fumes. Then go to breakfast with friends, order something fairly healthy only to have either the waitress or the cook make your food vanish into thin air. It took them an hour and a half. For me to eat... nothing. Maybe for the best.

You look at baby pictures of your child when you are trying to find her birth certificate and wonder how you produced such an amazing looking being. You also find way old pictures of yourself, think of Y @ Joy Unexpected (can't do the linky thing in Mozilla) and her cute pic post of her and her husband as kids, and then wonder exactly when did my appendages become so large. It was sometime between high school and college? The fuck?

You take pictures of your smeary makeup and download them only to realize you look like you are crying. Oh. Wait. You might have been. It's that damn Coldplay song, "I'll Fix You." Gets you every time.

You take pictures of the only lovely, funny boy at the bar. He's sexy. Cute. And yet... wait... why yes. He did trade shoes with you so that he could wear your four inch come fuck me pumps and then be tall enough to date you. Except that he ended up kissing another chica. Not that I could blame him or anything, but still. Let's review. Cute boy. Pumps. Kissing another girl. That's how it's supposed to work, right?

You look at LK at the bar and laugh hysterically over things that weren't all that funny, but they ... just were. Thinking of acorn. Nearly hork over acorn dick stories.

Receive text messages from someone. Laugh. Like an idiot.

You wonder why you haven't eaten. You admire the bruises on your stomach from all the insulin shots. You silently curse the incompetent staff at IHOP.

You forget what you were going to write and tell yourself to get your half drunk, half starving dumb ass to bed. But not until you wash that whore makeup of your smeary eyes. And floss. Floss when drunk.

Cute boy in my sexy shoes. Somehow not so sexy.

Posted by debutaunt at July 29, 2005 05:39 AM