Fever Dreams

When I think of her, and who she is, and how she became the person that she is today, I’m still slightly flabbergasted. I know what it means to be fucked up, so when I see someone who’s more fucked up than I am, it makes me stop and wonder. Young, pretty, smart, and talented, and throwing it away on cocaine binges and dirty dick. What kind of trauma does it take to lose your life to demons? And isn’t that a fascinating thing to watch happening? I look at her Facebook and her Instagram, hoping to find some evidence of the pain that prompted to her to become this broken little baby, but I can’t. I know that it’s sitting inside her somewhere, and I want to go digging through her psyche to find that one flashing night that turned her from tomorrow’s star into today’s monster. How did she become like this, and please tell me why. I would like to dissect everything awful that has ever happened to her so that I can make a little flow chart of disaster and disappointment that leads to this current image I have of her in my head, which is her, sitting on some dingy West Oakland living room floor at 8 am, snorting blow in her panties in a room filled with sleeping people, chugging Hennessy, and texting me to see if she can come over. How did you become like this, little girl?

I shouldn’t be obsessed with her, but I am, which is unfortunate because these kinds of obsessions are how I find myself sitting next to her at 8 am doing knife bumps and Heem shots. We’ll be naked together next week, making out in some sickly, sticky sex scene surrounded by sleeping bodies, because I have to become her to know her. I have to stick my fingers in her wounds in order to feel everything that she feels, after which I will ask myself: why did I just do that?

Crumbling women are so much fun to know, and then after they’re gone, like shooting stars in the sky, I will tell everyone about how beautiful they used to be.