He tells me we’re demons, and I believe him because I know I’m no angel. But as he takes my hand and drags me down, I start to wonder: just because I’m no angel doesn’t make me a demon. It just makes me human. But what is a human on a path like this, down the dirt road of demons. Just another lost soul at the mercy of the devil.
I bump up and swig back because fuck it, I’m here and there’s nothing better to do. This neverworld nepenthe is hitting me straight in the heart, and, as usual, my mouth opens up and the words flow out. I don’t need drugs to talk too much, but when I do drugs I talk even more. It feels almost other worldly as I start saying the stupid things that I always say. Well, it’s not that my stories are dumb but I know they’re a ruse. After years of talking too much, I have learned that not everything I say is true. There just isn’t that much truth in the world. And even though I believe the things I say to be true, it can’t be proven. I talk too much because it’s a good place to hide. The false show of vulnerability. The stories spill out of my mouth – but they’re the same sharply manicured stories that I tell time and time again. The ones that make me look good. The ones that make me look fun. Or crazy. Or interesting. Or fuckable. Or wild. Stories that are true in a sense but that only offer a simulacrum of vulnerability. I am not the person that these stories might make you think I am. Or, rather, I am more than the person in the stories I tell about myself. I know this. The stories that I tell are generally shocking and a bit grotesque, which is meant to make them seem deep and personal. But they’re not. The truly deep and personal stories – you won’t find them regurgitated on one of my blogs or trotted out at party time to make me seem cool. I keep those stories locked up in the back in my mind. You know, the stories that I would actually have to tell if I wanted someone to know who I am and why I am. I don’t tell those stories. Instead, I tell stories that sound good when on a journey of mutual intimacy. They’re good stories. Funny stories. Weird stories. Stories that are meant to make the other person feel like: oh, wow, she’s really opening up and talking about some personal shit. It’s probably safe for me to do the same. It’s not. It’s not safe. Then again, people don’t call me and ask me to come over to fuck because they want to feel safe. Quite the opposite. Which is how I justify the ruse to myself all over again.