Dear 'god' what a bad day! I woke up with a horrible head ache so I decided to sleep it off for awhile. I expected to get to work around 8:30, but I had to wait for my second bus to get downtown in the cold (thus arriving around 8:45).
My body was not my friend. It is almost as though it wants to feel like shit because any good I try bringing to it only makes everything worse. The day went by SO slowly (even if I was late and left early, it took forever!) so when the time I decided to leave at finally rolled around I fled the scene.
On my way home, while waiting for the bus that goes towards my house I decided to finish my last cigarette. Big mistake. A few blocks from where I got on the bus I got off and tried to make haist (which was a wobbly slow walk-like I was tipsy and mixing drugs) to the gas station washroom where I stripped down to my first sweater and ran some water on my hands.
I sat on the floor trying to not look at anything with detail or words. I was hoping for my body to give in to the nausea and just throw up, but nothing came out. I looked at myself in the mirror and looked like I could be overdosing on something (flushed of whatever color I had with big red or brown lines under my eyelids, and eyes open in such a sickly maner). Sadly, this matched how Marilyn Manson was feeling in some sense in the part of the book (The Long Hard Road Out Of Hell) I ended at before bailing the bus. He was sitting in the hospital worried about the only person he could still bring himself to love (she was deadly ill. I relate because of my male disapearing out of my life which is tearing me appart). Also, he was realizing his life's downfall and was trapped within misery. I looked around the scummy bathroom and realized I felt how this bathroom looked and wanted to die or reside in a hospital for awhile.
After spending some time trying to regain some strength to leave and catch the next bus, I through on a coat and barely holding myself up, I walked to the next stop (as my bus rushed passed me).
Some rude humans decided to yell something at me, people stared, a man motioned with his hand which I think was a *drinky drinky* type motion. A cold breeze decided to continually rush at my back (which was exposed in the slouched position I was in). On the bus the feeling returned but I focused on something else so I could at least make it home. Eyes stared at me where ever I went (I hate it when people feel the urdge to stare at me as though they are stealing my soul with their persistant eyes. I don't mind looks of concern, like someone is hoping to help me if I start to fall, but, sorry for the stereo-type, old orental people are the worst for this and they don't give two shits on who you are, they just want to look at you until you or they are gone!).
Home was so nice. I climbed into the shower, ate then passed out for a few hours. I really don't want to leave the house anymore. Too much bad results from it. Next Monday should be nice though. It will be a busy day because I have my last photography class and some guy invited me to some "rock-a-billy" evening at a lounge. Sounds interesting and would be a good change of pace for me.
I was going to write an exerpt from Marilyn's Dream perspective, but this exerpt sounds more suitable for my situation:
I began to sing. "There's not much left to love." I reflexively took a sniff of the cocaine in front of my face. "Too tired today to hate." The drug didn't even effect me anymore. "I feel the empty." Something wet splashed in the middle of the pile of white powder. "I feel the minute of decay." It was a tear. "I'm on my way down now." I was crying. "I'd like to take you with me." I couldn't remember the last time I had cried--even felt--like this. "I'm on my way down." I completely broke down.
...She was the only person left for whom I was capable of feeling any love, and to lose her would be to destroy my only chance of returning to the nomal human world of feelings, sentiments and passion--to destroy in essence, myself.