Every once in a while I have some memories I want to write about here, but they’re not very sexy. I need to breathe them out, so skip these posts if you like.
Last night Hornboy ran to the store to get me some wine to ease my cramps, and some Drano for the tub choking up with my lovely black hair. When he came back he made a physical joke about dripping Drano into his glass — it upset me a little, I said don’t even joke like that. He told me that when he bought it the Salvadoran man who runs the corner store by my house explained throughout the purchase that his first wife’s dad tried to commit suicide with Drano. He drank it with a bottle of wine but lived. Then he tried it with Drano crystals and whiskey, but lived. Then he hung himself. That one worked.
I told Hornboy that I knew a girl once who drank a bottle of rubbing alcohol to try and kill herself, but she lived. He said, “That’s a weird choice.” I said, “She didn’t have a choice.”
I guess I should’ve added, “at the time.” I thought about Christy. In junior high, her and her brother were these sexy blonde surfer/skater kids. I’d steal pot from my drug dealing mom and we’d get baked before our first class every day with our third pal Katie (who was totally into Van Halen); I always had a crush on Christy’s brother and thought Christy was a physical ideal — long kinky blonde/brown hair, blue eyes, dark lashes, gorgeous.
I left home right before I turned fourteen. After a year or so on the streets, I ran into Christy at the bench I panhandled and hustled food from, and told her I was homeless — I had become the master of staying at people’s houses for a weekend to regroup and shower, and get some warm food. Christy had me come stay with her right away; but it was at her grandmother’s house, where she told me her and her brother lived now, away from her parents.
My first night there, we snuck through the house and stole a bottle of really bad wine from her grandmother’s garage. We sat in the dark and quiet of her bedroom, trying not to wake anyone up, yet trying to open the wine bottle. We accidentally broke it at the neck. For some reason we decided that if we put a paper towel over the broken opening it would be safe to drink. While we sipped from the jagged bottle, Christy told me that her grandmother had custody of them now. We sat on her mattress on the floor, looking out her window at the streetlights, and she told me that the whole time we were in 7th grade getting ripped on my mom’s drugs and reeking of reefer in homeroom, her dad was fucking her. And her brother. And beating the shit out of both of them. It made sense; I remembered the bruises and marks on her arms, thighs, legs and hips when we’d put on our bikinis and slather ourselves with oil trying to get tan at Katie’s house after school, in between tokes.
One day her dad beat her so bad she couldn’t get up off the floor, and her brother snapped. He jumped their dad, but the father started hitting him back, and beat him down. Christy made it to the bathroom and locked the door. She ate and drank everything she could find, including an entire bottle of rubbing alcohol. The last thing she remembered was vomiting blood. She floated away.
Anyway, sometimes I remember these things but don’t talk about them. I’m going to go have some wine now. I just talked on the phone with a friend who told me he knew about the AVNOnline article, where they ran the picture of the woman who uses my name to make porn instead of mine in an article about my presentation. My friend knew about the impostor’s picture when the article went up on the 31st, but he didn’t tell me because he didn’t want to upset me. Instead, he immediately sent emails to the editorial staff asking them to make a correction. But they didn’t. So basically, they did it on purpose. Porn people make me so sad sometimes.
