The Fucks - A Nonsensical Story to Get Me Back in the Blog Game

At the ripe old age of twenty I decided I wanted a child. The only problem was I didn't want children, so I bought three bags of sugar. The truth is I just wanted something of my own to name. One wasn't good enough, so I bought three and named them Fetus, Jesus and Blelvis. They all shared the same last name, but it would not be their mother's maiden name, no, and they were without father. Fuck. That would be their given last name.

When I was twenty years old I gave birth to three beautiful boys, Fetus Fuck, Jesus Fuck and Blelvis Fuck. Sick of men, sick of dating, sick of everyone really, I raised them away from the world until they were twenty. This took five minutes. Five minutes is twenty years in sugar time.

Fetus, Jesus, Blelvis and I decided to start a band. We called ourselves The Fucks, which meant that I had to take on their last name. Wesley Fuck didn't have a good enough ring to it, so I changed my first name to The-Best. At the age of twenty I changed my name to The-Best Fuck.

Before a minute more passed, I stopped sugar time with a magic spell involving salt. Salt is a preservative and otherwise irrelevant to this story.

Fetus Fuck and Jesus Fuck were white. Blelvis Fuck was brown. When they were twenty they demanded to know how this came about. I could not give them the answers they were looking for, instead I patted them on the top of their sugar bag heads and assured them that they were all equally as sweet to me.

The Fucks toured around the kitchen for seven minutes before breaking up. We sited artistic differences and moved on with happy memories and kind regards.

Fetus Fuck decided to get his brand pierced to enhance his chances of becoming a suicide girl. When Jesus Fuck put the needle through, Fetus Fuck began to bleed sugar blood all over the floor. Blelvis Fuck splashed his wounds with red food coloring. I filmed. The Fucks cashed in on their fame and became movie stars.

Fifteen minutes had passed. Blelvis Fuck and Fetus Fuck gave up their lives for the cookie cause. Jesus Fuck lost his mind and sold his body off as fake cocaine. As the sole survivor, and once nurturing mother, I felt it was my duty to share this story with the world. Drop curtains.

Evil Women and Their Dialogue

(random guy's house)

Me: I'm looking for a little romance. What do you find romantic?

Guy with brain damage: Light a candle. That is romance.

(He lights a candle in the middle of the room and turns off the lights. Sabrina and I erupt in laughter.)

Me: I just fell in love with you. This is so romantic.

Sabrina: I love you, too. I want a commitment. I think it's this romantic atmosphere.

Me: I want a commitment like ultimate frisbee. Joining the ultimate frisbee team is the ultimate commitment.

Guy with brain damage: I had a nasty punk rock girlfriend in high school. She dated me because I had a mohawk.

Sabrina: Well, if she was nasty why were you with her?

Guy with brain damage: We only went out a couple times.

Me: So, she wasnt your girlfriend.

Sabrina: Youre a liar. I bet she doesnt even exist.

Me: I bet you didnt have a mohawk.

Sabrina: You didnt even go to high school, did you?

(A guy walks into the bar with a friend. He stops in front of me.)

Guy in bar: Hey, you look familiar.

Me: No, I dont.

Guy in bar: Yeah, where do I know you from?

Me: Youve never seen me in your entire life....keep walking.

Guy in bar: No, really, you look familiar.

Me: No, really, I dont. You dont know me, the bullshit line isnt going to work.

Guy in bar: Bu-

Me: Keep walking.

Guy in bar: Bu-

Me: Keep walking. Youve learned your lesson, now walk away in peace.

( a restaurant)

Me: I'm giving Rob a fake diamond ring to give you. I'll slip it in his pocket with a note that says "Commitment" in huge letters.

Sabrina: Hes in over his head.

Me: Yeah, he knows it, too. I'll draw pictures of your dream house and name all four of your children.

Sabrina: Yeah, then give him pamphlets on vasectomies.

Me: Hide a bag of sugar under his bed. A bag of sugar in baby clothes with a name tag like they do in health class. Then slip him a note that says to look under his bed. Make him carry it around.

Sabrina: Yeah, and the entire time Ill keep telling him I dont want a relationship. Im not ready for a commitment.

Me: While Im slipping him disturbing notes, "how to be a good dad" books and wedding magazines. He'll ask you whats wrong with me.

Sabrina: And I'll look really hurt and be like, "What about Joey, Jeremy, Joshie and Jakey? What about our dream house? What about the commitment?"

Me: That'll freak him out.

Sabrina: Yeah, he should never of asked me out.

Me: All of this and you guys havent even been out yet. We are "double trouble."

Ghosts

Another two days pass, two days I could swear I didn't actually live. An open fire hydrant sprays water onto 32nd Avenue at five in the morning, a few stars clinging on to a cobalt sky, a dead landscape. I stare out of Doug's car hallucinating lights above and around me, waiting for that cobalt sky to fall making for a complete surreal moment.

I'm not sure how I got here, with Doug, a fellow Vivace hound, on this cold morning. We became friends suddenly, an afternoon not long ago when I saw a sadness hanging from his face. He confided in me of his harsh break-up with longtime girlfriend Hope. Depression is the common theme of the Broadway scene and I have become the wounded healer, the people's counselor and confidant.

I'm brought back to another night a few years back. I can see myself skateboarding down by Pike Place Market on Mark Massey's deck, the street lights lighting my way. I was always stealing their boards, maybe so they knew how it felt to be a few steps behind. We were on our way to the corner store to get some beer before heading to Nate's house in West Seattle. Natalie, Mark, Owen, Nate, Sean and Arlo, maybe a couple more forgotten members of "team phaded two" trailed behind me, skateboards in hand. A scene straight out of Kids.

Sixteen years old, I wondered then, too, how I'd ended up in that place. It marked a beginning, probably one of the first late nights I'd spent with the Seattle skateboarders. The night when Natalie and I beat up Owen, O-nutz, and Mark, the one with the floppy hair and squeaky voice, for trying to take it to a physical level. Sean shot me in the eye with a bread crumb, smelly Sean, the one we crushed on. Pizza at Nate's house and Mark's drunken whining, a free cab ride to Magnolia where Arlo lived. Arlo's huge apartment with the awesome porch swing and unreleased Sublime. After Owen tried to reach his hands down my pants when he thought I was passed out, and Arlo tried to take my shoes off so that he could graffiti my face, I slept with one eye open. I slept in Sean's arms for protection, waking up at nine to use the old lady's telephone next door to lie to my mother about where I'd been.

I remember the green neon sign of the youth hostel competing with the flashing red of the fire trucks consuming the empty street. Water rushed chaotic through the heart of downtown, a beautiful red fountain, rushing rivers as the world burned down. I stopped the board with my foot, kicking it into my hand, jaw dropped, suddenly moving in slow motion. We huddled together on the street corner engulfed in the stillness, the silence. In awe we watched the water clash with fire like little kids watching a fireworks display. A complete surreal moment.

Before I'd met up with Sabrina and Doug, my new sad support group, I walked Broadway in search of cigarettes. Passing Seattle's Best Coffee I caught a nun, complete with a white habit, out of the corner of my eye. Initially I smiled. Upon closer inspection I laughed out loud...she was smoking a cigarette, proving yet again that the world has gone straight to hell. Only in my world...

Seattle's Best Coffee replaced World Wraps last year, yet another childhood landmark lost to change. Natalie and I sat at the tables outside of World Wraps, lit up by blacklights one night waiting for something to happen. 1999. Rich "the flyer guy" pulled up in his girlfriend's red sports car and demanded we get in. That was the night I met Dusty Rhodes, the breakdancer who replaced the dj I'd just broken up with. Natalie, Dusty, Rich, Casey(flyer guy who later replaced Rich at Laughing Buddha tattoo), Rich's girlfriend Lindsey, her nameless friend and I piled into Lindsey's car. Being the smallest, I lay across four people in the backseat. We went to a party where we drank too much beer and convinced drunk people that Rich was Fred Durst. Dusty moved back to Albuquerque a few days later, Rich fell off the planet, Lindsey decided she was a lesbian and Casey got into drugs.

Past Seattle's Best and the nun, I think about what Dusty's going to send me from Jamaica. I'd just received an e-mail from him, the last of many I've received in the four years since that night.

Vodka and Sobe. Sabrina, having lost her job and man in a short twenty-fours, decided on vodka and gangsta rap as the perfect escape from her woes. Having bestfriend status, I offered the idea of citrus Sobe, the perfect companion to vodka when in ass-kicking mode. I can't count how many times I've used that combination, pouring bottle into bottle in the handicapped stall at the Seattle Center, to find myself in the worst kind of troubles.
I prefer beer for a reason.

"Smile scrapper," Nancy No Panties demanded, pointing my camera at Michito and I, his arm around my back as we shared his skateboard to avoid the dirty cement that ran in front of the Seattle Center skatepark. The sunlight hit my sensitive eyes, one slowly turning black. I put down the bag of ice Victor had fetched me from McDonald's to reveal my swollen nose, broken and bleeding from where my nose ring had been ripped upwards. Drunk, thanks to Sobe and vodka, I smiled broadly, thinking of the cigarette I put out on the girls face, embarrassed that it was all caught on tape by Slugs. The videotape was lost during the Mardi Gras riots that year. Only the photograph of Michito and I, firmly pressed in an album, remains as proof of my idiotic behavior.

Michito, three years later, sits on Sabrina's couch, as Sabrina and I sit hung-over and exhausted from the previous night of Sobe and vodka. They went to high school together in Kirkland, along with my ex, John, Mike Musser, and Dave Haggar. Mich and I talk about old team phaded friends, people who I've been running into nearly everyday lately. "I saw Owen yesterday," I said. "He's doing better than I've ever seen him." It seems so random that we'd all be sitting together, how my life seems to be circling back to the best and worst times I've ever had, reconnecting me with the boys who raised me under scorched nights, fire hydrants running rampid, as the sky fell down around us, how we managed to stand despite the odds against us.

Sabrina waits with me at the bus stop in front of Laughing Buddha Tattoo. I'm finally leaving The Hill to head back to my parents house. A car pulls up and stops directly in front of us. I grab Sabrina's arm and say, "Oh my god, that guy looks like Fred Durst." It hits me fast and hard when I remember where I am and where I've been. "Rich!"

Shmooze And Booze

I had this boyfriend in high school who claimed my voice was like peppermint tea. This statement remains as one of the last and only compliments I've kept with me. I normally drop them one by one as I walk, I slip them into other people's pockets when their focus is elsewhere. Sometimes I even waste them on undeserving boys with quiet storms brewing in their eyes.

I listened to my own voice recorded today. Momentarily I heard what Cody Lewis heard in 10th grade, though it wasn't peppermint tea, it was chamomile and honey, choked down with cigarettes...soothing, but rough, soft but strong. This is the way I've grown. I doubt he'd recognize me today. Somedays I don't recognize myself anymore, the most delicate piece of broken edged glass, sharp as hell, but still vulnerable to destruction, tiny pieces chip-chipping away, making me all the more dangerous in a run-in.

My life has taken me to this place, a place that little girls fantasize about, a place that my minds eye created early on as a world of bliss and perfection, a sweet revenge on my former life. Here I am. All eyes on me.

I walk into the room soaked in the smell of sweet anticipation and halo perfume. Thoughts of the infamous Dr. Bob's tight embrace downstairs. Thoughts drift quickly to the indie rocker boys that stand in front of Lindsey and I. They're immediately taken aback by us, like we came just for them. She knows the one in the white shirt. The one in black makes my heart stop. "Veronika" I hear her say, re-introducing herself to Mr. White. I know then that I must lie, too. It's part of the game.

"My name's Lucie," I say to Mr. Black and accept his offered hand in an embrace.

"Lucy in the sky with diamonds," he says, making me truly feel for the real Lucys and Lucies out there.

"Lucie Loveday," I say correcting him, but really reaching for something deeper.

He laughs and tells me it's beautiful, he tells me I'm beautiful. I walk away, a thick jealousy aimed towards the character I've created. I retrieve a budweiser from my purse and crack it open. Lucie brings budweiser to upscale parties to stay away from the adjective "classy." I grabbed Lindsey's arm for our first round, Jeff, a friend of Lindsey's from school, trailed behind us.

The shmoozing and boozing begins. Robert, the host of the night's merriment would run quickly towards us for kiss kisses and whines of why I hadn't called him. Robert makes me cringe, his eyes touching my body against my will. He would then make a thousand introductions until my head was spinning and I no longer knew what my name was let alone anyone else's. Free drinks from the bar. The combination led everyone to believe, and rightly so I suppose, that I'm a very important person.

New drinks in hand, buds downed, we paraded across the dance floor, getting sized up by the enormous eccentric crowd. It took only moments in the midst of it to realize that I wasn't exactly cut out for this particular life, after a whole lifetime of build-up on the outside thinking otherwise. Now, I question what makes a person cut out for a particular something or other, because the level of acceptance blasted through the roof up into the clear post-midnight sky. It was the acceptance that I couldn't handle. The groping eyes, the smiles shining in at me from every angle, like one hipster guy and one slinkster cool girl reflected by twisted fun house mirrors beckoning me forth.

I look down at myself. The giant boots clinging to my legs first, black and fierce, fur like thick panther fur, an intimidating foundation, shooting me seven inches higher than my normal standing,unlaced at the top to reveal the brown leg warmers that crawl up my lower thigh over my knees, to reveal, at last, skin. Just enough skin to see the shape of my slightly muscular twigs, muscle gained from marching, muscle created through long journeys through hard steady rainfall. A sequined brown skirt falls and drops down, sparkling, reflecting the lights, just to cover my ass, as it's side slit inches it's way to my panty line. But no skin. This spot was strategically covered to hide my upper thigh with a portion of cut up black fishnet, tucked into my underwear, the skirt held up, too, with a big green button that reads "protect all roadless areas", a button given to me by this guy in the Graceland days, Graceland, my gateway drug to this bizarre scene. A black and metal studded belt aids in keeping the skirt up, as I had it halfed and tucked under it's self to go better with the boots. I continue my gaze upwards past my waistline to my light brown shirt, a perfect fit, tiny sleeves revealing shoulder, traveling down shoulders to hit brown and orange armwarmers at my elbow, the armwarmers covered in bracelets, some studded black, some colorful hitting forearm than wrist. My fingers protrude from the handless sleeves to push back the hair of my maroon wig which keeps finding its way to my eyes. I adjust the blue bandana and side-sweeped bangs...Then I smile with maroon lips at my creation...This is Lucie Loveday.

I scan the crowd to see eyes meeting my own. The few I recognized I moved toward, saying my hellos and how are yous. The unfamiliars left me nervous, shifting around me in dance, not knowing whether I'd be worshipped or sacrificed. I drifted through feeling high but wary, doing my own dance, the dance of the drugged deer.

"You are so beautiful," Robert whispered into my ear, his body too close, the walls in the room suddenly too close. I wish he wasn't a great photographer, I wish so badly that I didn't have to put up with it.

I smile and say my casual thanks, thinking of how old and meaningless the compliment had become. Less than an hour into the night I'd received enough "You're so beautifuls", "Youre so hots" and "Youre so smashings" that I could feed a whole village of self-deprecating girls with enough self-esteem and reassurance to last them an eternity. The power, the intensity of the crowded loft space, left me sobered no matter how many jack and cokes I downed.

"You're my favorite," said this guy, "Out of everyone, you're my favorite." I laughed and thanked him, not knowing what this meant, yet in another way, understanding completely. We were all being judged.

"You're famous," said another guy, after a stranger came to say goodnight to me, as the guy and I walked up the stairs after returning to his car. He pegged me for a graffiti writer supporter and asked me to help him transport paint in my purse. I agreed and there we were. I forget his name, but he offered me a place to live in San Francisco, said I seemed cool as shit. What a stupid phrase. He thought that I was "cool as shit" because I'd gotten in a mock fight with him earlier, mock on his side anyway. I yelled at him, genuinely upset, but I guess he was joking.

He apologized to our mutual friend Rob, saying, "I'm so sorry for disrespecting your sister." Rob replied with, "She's not my sister, dude." I'd been telling people he was my fraternal twin brother all night. We'd been fucking with people, talking about what a bitch mom was and stuff. I guess he was sick of playing along. Really, he was just a skater guy I'd gotten drunk with many a times in high school. But honestly, one of the people in my life I will never forget for as long as I live. Stranded at seventeen, in the middle of nowhere, ditched by his soon to be girlfriend and my best friend at the time, he let me sleep at his house, even woke up early to give me a ride home so I wouldn't get in trouble. Later he woke me up to the fact that Paul King, my first love, would never allow himself to be with me. Rob was a fun person to lie with. These parties were based on lies.

Jeff, Lindsey's classmate, spoke with these two dorky fellows, while I posed for Roach's camera. Roach is an old Graceland favorite who bummed me countless cigarettes in the wee hours of the morning when I couldn't make it to a store. I can never remember if his name's Roach or Bear because he's so massive. We joked about that until I got distracted by Jeff and his little entourage watching me. I heard him say, "Yeah, that's Wesley."

"Hey, come here," I said to them. "Did Jeff just call me Wesley?" They nodded yes and I explained what an idiot Jeff was, saying "My name's Lucie. Wesley's my twin brother." More lies. I guess the idea's to keep the people guessing, to leave an air of mystery around yourself, while being as outspoken as possible.

Early in the evening, I found myself on the dance floor, relatively sober, which almost never happens. The power I held with the people allowed me to move freely, knowing that I was something they just couldn't touch. The early nineties hit, "boys who like girls" knocked around the room with a monster force. I belted the lyrics, for the first time I can remember, unashamed, unafraid of being judged by the skaters I grew up with. The few that made their way to these gatherings saw me dancing and rushed over to join me.

Lindsey upstairs with Mr. White, I danced with Jeff, while the skater boys attempted to knock him out of the picture. It was the first time they'd ever fought for my attention. I ensured Jeff would win, but later abandoned him to say a quick hello to Ezekiel Jamis Frye, Drunkin' Runkin's old flame. Zeke and I tore it up go-go style to the neo-sixties music the dj selected, a perfect selection. We hopped into the middle of the floor to steal the show. He and O-Nuts, another member of our now ancient crew, told me how hot I'd become. Now even my old friends were turning on me, turned on by me, the boys who made me feel worthless all through my adolescence because I was in love with their friend Paul, and easily stepped on because of it, I suppose.

Jeff announced to Lindsey and I that he was gay, which came as a huge shock. I thought he liked me, Lindsey wanted him to want her. She sucked on his ear, repeating over and over again, "Does this turn you on?" I stood jealous, next to Mr. White, who was probably equally as jealous. We discussed style and fashion, trying our best to ignore the make-out session going on a couple feet away from us. Jeff and I had just been watching Lindsey as she kissed dirty Robert for another free drink, now Jeff kissed the remnants of Robert's essence off her lips. I'm sure Robert had sucked off Mr. White's already, though Jeff may have gotten a taste of that, too. Although appalled, I understood why she kissed Robert. He was angry with her, it was just business, a kiss she could right off when doing her taxes.

If we wanted to remain, we had to do our jobs-look hot, be nice, make the room adore us. In passing, I kissed Jeff, the fashion show producer, not Lindsey's gay schoolmate, who was joking about being gay, but when I kissed him it was sweet and European, like he'd been my best friend for years. Each time we passed we'd kiss, one glorious party-going model to another, I could never sink to the level below that, but I dont judge those who do.

"I just wanted to tell you look hot tonight. My friends and I have been checking you out. We like watching you dance," said some girl wearing next to nothing, pointing to a couch full of girls dressed the same. I imagined the possibilities, the potential for all out chaos, but not being bi-sexual in the least, thanked them and walked away. The women were after Lindsey and I. A girl dressed in a nurse's outfit felt Linds up, told her she had perky tits. Another told us we were sexy and asked us to help her undress in the bathroom, we ran when she wasn't looking. Charity, a local fashion designer I'd met before at another of Robert's parties, had her friend tell me about her crush. She wanted to be there when Robert finally took pictures of me. She watched me throughout the night with sex eyes and a smirk.

"That guy thinks you're hot. He likes you not me," screamed Lindsey over the music. She nodded behind her to reveal Mr. White. At this point, I didn't know they'd made out upstairs. On my way to the bathroom I passed him and went for a kiss on the cheek. I was taken by surprise when he went for the lips, but I was happy, I thought he was beautiful, no Mr. Black, but beautiful nonetheless.

I returned to see Lindsey dancing with Mr. White. I danced with Jeff. Suddenly they started kissing and I backed off from Jeff in bitter rage. "Oh my god, I cant believe this shit. I cant believe shes fuckin' kissing him. She just told me he likes me. What a fuckin' whore."

Lindsey notices me upset and comes over. I yell at her, until I cant breathe. "No, the guy in the black shirt likes you." I'm still angry, but I feel stupid, especially since I kissed her guy. I don't like the idea of kissing the same guy as my friend. I don't share.

My anger worsens as I look around to see the way that these people look at me, the way they suck up to me. I'm infuriated by the attention and the inability to tell who likes me for me and who looks solely at Lucie Loveday. At this moment, I know what it feels like to be famous. My dream come true, being famous just for being alive. Instead of people coming up and saying, "I love your music," they say "I love your style," "I love the way you dance," "I envy the way you breath" shy and uncertain, while others watch in awe unable to say anything. I want to scream at them. I want to rip my wig off and put on pajamas, which I do immediately when I walk into my house. Knowing that I could have anyone in the room, makes me want no one at all. I miss Marcio, but I don't realize that until I get home and wonder where all the pain is really coming from. Marcio and I met at Graceland, the baby sister to these parties, and seeing familiar faces from Graceland, made his absent one that much more absent. He loved Lucie's maroon hair, but was just as happy when I took the wig off and put on his shorts for bed. I worry that I'll never find that again.

I dance with Zeke, my old friend from the wreaking havoc days, to escape their eyes. He says, "This is why Ive always liked you. You were always your own person. You were never like the other girls. We should go out sometime. You're so sexy."

I grow quiet and stop dancing. "When I look at you I still see Katie," I say.

He's fuming. Begins to walk off behind Lindsey and Jeff who are at it again. I call him back and say that we can still hang out, but the more he talks-"Well, if this isnt going to lead anywhere, why get your number?"- the more angry I become. I tell him we'll see and watch him go off to Rob, he says "Rob, you gotta pen, I need to get 'this girl's' number." That was breaking point for me, I saw how inebriated he was, he'd referred to me as "this girl." Rob shot me a sympathetic look when he saw how upset I was. I hugged Rob and Owen good-bye and told Jeff and Linds that we were leaving. Later, walking in the alley outside of the space, a loud crash of broken glass caused us to turn around. Zeke's forty bottle had missed my head by about two feet.

John Massey stood against the wall, watching over his homeboy who'd taken one too many valiums. I always had a crush on him, though even sharing a bed with him at Sadiq's sleep-overs once upon a time, I was never his cup of tea. He started hitting on this girl, I tried to be nice to her, tried to help him out. She rejected us both, which led only to the shaking of our heads and laugher. When I finally left that night I caught a look from John I'd never seen before, a look I'll probably never see again, it was the look of shock(that I was leaving) and urgency, a look I wear too often, in his eyes I saw unspoken words. I blew him a kiss, a thank you for the only compliment I'd take with me from that night.

Part Two

Time passes, lessons learned, and Lucie Loveday sits suicidal in the dark dirt-lined swamp that is the bathtub in the Graceland bathroom. The red light shines on her face, catching the gleam in her eyes, lighting her mascara drenched tears as they run like tiny rivers down her face. A red glow casted on the concrete walls and worn floor weathered with holes, dips and unavoidable imperfections. A large oval mirror rests in her shaky left hand, a mirror set in pieces of crushed bone and promise rings, held together by ancient whisperings and the regret of ex-loves, circling a beautiful face, a famous face, her perfect revenge on the men who once took her for granted. Lucie's right hand brings a cigarette from the floor, where her arm drags, to her lipstick smeared mouth and back again.

She looks into the mirror and sees a girl that the masses want to devour, a face they adore without reason or feeling, an expensive doll, a cheap human being. She thumbs through thoughts of smashing the glass and using the pieces to slash her face away to ugliness. Lucie quivers, stifled breath in a small room, it's air so thick with the past, humid by the heat of the moment, musty with the scent of sweat and blood rising steadily to the surface of her skin.

Loud knocks and screams bellow through the door locked, the temporary wall between her and the outside world. Music drowns out the noise, but nothing can be done to erase their incessant longing, the pressure that leaks through the cracks in the walls and ceiling making Lucie's spine tingle with hatred, her lips tremble with fear. Contracts slide under the door, simple white sheets of paper, asking for her measurements, the release of her image and identity, the permanent hold on her sick soul. She rips at her long hair, her legs wiggling about, pushing the outer rim of the tub, to make for one extreme restless movement. Her mouth parts to give way to groans and wails, then moments later lullabies my mother used to sing when I was a child broken apart by maniacal giggles.

Lucie thinks back to the day she was brought into existence. She was born in Pacific Beach, San Diego, as Lucien Verona, 1997. "Gotta love those big brown eyes," said this god-like surfer from the edge of the boardwalk I strode down. The attention, the smiles were a mere child's dream until that moment when they were first given life. The surfers of PB invoked her, the bonfire spirit, to rise near their ocean, to walk quietly inside me up and down that stretch of pavement. Lucien began her life with the best of intentions, a fourteen year old girl who longed to be someone people looked at. She was a super hero to me, a courageous little one who followed her heart to youth hostels in search of nineteen year old boys on cool lifeless mornings. Unlike me, she had a heart clean of scars and infected wounds.

She remembers the change. Lucie remembers the night when she skated down the dim-lit boardwalk, free, madly in love with this thing we call life. In the bathtub she squirms, eyes closed, re-living the rape of her innocence. She sees the skateboarder who stopped her, she sees the way he sees her, hears his voice as he talks bluntly about her cleavage, her big tits, pleading her to be in his skate video, depreciating her soul with his eyes. She felt so helpless, enraged by his ability to turn her beauty into meaningless sex, her body into an empty vessel. Lucien walked back to her hotel destroyed. She couldn't face my older brother, so she slept in the hallway outside of the room, cursing god for her body, cursing god for her big brown eyes. Lucien tripped and fell out of my imagination into the image the skateboarder forced on her, an insecure girl easily abused, the illusion of an empty vessel easily open to touch without feel.

Lucie screams, the shrill noise caught in the web and held, the different desires of the world woven around her in intricate invisible patterns. She turns the dirty faucet large as her small hand and smirks as cold rust-washed water cascades over her black panther feet.

She feels no remorse for the men she tore down like decaying walls, Lucie short for Lucifer. Revenge called and Lucien Verona, wearied, was trampled under the weight of bad feeling. Lucifer, the devil's mask of pretty flowers and faked smiles causing blue balls and bitter resentment wherever she walked. Unmerciful in her summoned storms, she preyed on the weak, praying for the strong to someday save me. Lucifer lit my world on fire and fell to ashes herself after avenging Verona.

Lucie envisions the fire on her legs being put out by the water she let climb up to her neck, her white lace dress swimming below the surface. She glances at the door breathing in and out with the force of bodies and voices calling to her. The fame seen in Lucien Verona's seemingly naïve premonitions, to be worshipped by the people that I could never gain approval from. To be someone that Paul King and his skater cronies would follow all the way down to hell, to be someone that left stars in the eyes of strangers by simply walking into a room. Lucie Loveday, the girl every man wanted and every woman wanted to be like.

She takes her attention back to the mirror. She gazes into it, searching her empty eyes for a sign of my existence inside her. Lucie sees what they see, a perfect face with glass doll eyes shining lifeless. Lucie sees that I no longer need her. She strokes the wicked exterior, bone and promises they now want to fulfill, before breaking the glass against the concrete wall above her head. Glass falls slowly around her, as my need for acceptance sinks into the murky water to die.

Lucie's maroon hair falls into her face as she searches the water below her for the perfect dagger. A large piece of jagged glass surfaces, reflecting red in the bathroom light. She folds her hands around it tightly and smiles, sitting up straight with confidence and conviction. She dries her hands on her wig and lights a cigarette. She breathes in deeply and steps out of the tub to retrieve the lingerie show contract. Laughing, Lucie reads over it, remembering what Robert the photographer said about the show, "Everyone will fall in love with you up there."

She sets her cigarette on the sink and picks up the piece of glass. Slowly, she drags it across her stomach, collecting blood on the makeshift pen. Lucie Loveday signs the contract like an autograph made out to her biggest fan. In exaggerated lettering she writes her name in blood and kisses the sheet, perfect lips imprinted, before dropping it into a puddle on the ground.

Climbing back into the tub with her smoke and broken mirror, she feels a slight form of relief, but the music in her head has faded and the noise of the crowd intensified. She can feel them groping, pushing, pulling, the smell of her fresh blood too much for them to take. Her cigarette finished, Lucie removes her armwarmers to expose her small wrists. She runs the blade, a smooth incision through her skin, slicing through the blue highways making their way down her arm. An empty vessel, she feels no pain, as the white of her dress turns a vivid red, as her doll eyes shut one last time, as her adoring fans disperse outside in search of a new idol. Lucie Loveday fades into nonexistence, as I, the shard of broken glass, slink down the street stained with the blood of the life and death I saved myself from. Into an alleyway I go, seeing a new world manifesting in the darkness, the Lucien Verona prophecy, a world that appreciates the sound of sweet chamomile and cigarettes echoing from an emotional razor blade, a world who judges beauty by the words not the lips.

We

A bottle of vino, open, letting spirits rise, proving that we can have anything we go about attaining.

My friend and I settled our differences on a walk that went for miles until the walk morphed into a subtle limp to a full-on drag. We decided on a ferry ride to Bainbridge Island and what's a ferry ride without a bottle of red wine? So, we inquired about a corner store. At the corner store we found an unsuspecting man who liked her. He'd receive her phone number and buy us the wine, the good old fashioned barter system. No corkscrew. Another man who liked her, he'd find his friend and hold the friend's bike hostage until the friend broke into a kitchen to find a corkscrew. No corkscrew in the kitchen. They'd walk us to a Thai restaurant. Someone there would open the bottle for him. That easy, two minors with broken feet, mending feelings and an open bottle of wine for our ferry ride.

We struggled in the bathrooom stall, two grande coffee cups ready to be filled with red goodness. We spoke loudly to dead ears about her bra, how this was always happening, how people probably thought we were making out. Everything is a game to us, we put on grand performances to empty auditoriums in attempt to cover our tracks. We take no chances. Broken cork, yet the wine flowed freely.

Walked to the smoking deck, a beautiful night, cloudy sky, bright lights on the horizon. We reminisced about the boys that took us here, about last time we sat smoking, drinking vino on this same deck, how this was somehow better, how it was always better in the dark. Serenity filled the air. This was about making peace, laying our demons to rest.

Bainbridge Island. Picked large daffodils and carried them as companions. We brought our concealed beverages to the first restaurant we saw, a pizza place. She made sex eyes with the young island boy, we laughed, got our pizza and walked to the dock where it all began.

My friend and I found an abandoned porch to dine upon. We talked at length, wading through misunderstandings, knee deep in previous assumptions. At this moment I'm so glad she found me before I slipped away. I have a new appreciation for her and what we'd been through. Time ceases to exist, I'm thankful I couldn't find my watch before I left the house; who needs a watch when we control the hours. Freedom in the feeling of being light and young again. Wine gone, pizza finished.

We walked past the bike shelter, grateful for the lack of precipitation and the night, enabling us to see this adventure as new, a new perspective on the shelter we shared wine under a month before in the midst of an afternoon storm. I show her where he and I had our first kiss, explaining my erection premonitions, burying him under my mind's mudslides. Trading a perfect day for a perfect night.

She took me on her and her love's path, the path that lead her to love, the love that paved the way to today. Quiet through the trees near the water on a wooden walkway. We dipped under a dock, where they had sat and shared their first meaningful silence. Then we slide down rocks toward the beach. I closed my eyes as she spoke. I imagined sliding too fast, falling into the dark unknown below, the intensity of the first kiss, falling in love. This kiss, the rain pouring down, a moment she will keep with her into forever.

I told her about my sacred kiss, the one I try to inhale again each time I breathe in deeply, the moment I paint into the air each time I sigh audibly. Seven months and counting, when I ran back into his arms, acting on my soul's urgent needs, a kiss that cried for more seconds, a time when time controlled our lives, leaving me gone when I needed to stay. But in that moment, I stayed, in that moment, I will stay until moments die.

We walked slowly, aching leg, discussing the artform of never letting go of precious people. Healed, knowing that an infinite number of souls walk with us, breathe inside us, a subtle but strong brush of truth moving like a hand waving off self-destructive thought, dispersing rumors that everyone dies alone.

My Morning Happiness

my horoscope today:

"Not everyone is convinced of your inherent preciousness."

Best thing ever.

Heroin Chic

I drifted in and out of this place where I lived on a shag-carpeted basement floor last night. I lay on this floor like a heap of dirty laundry left for weeks. I dreamt about being a cokehead and a heroin junkie. Surrounded by bright colors and the feeling of having given it all up, it felt like suicide, sad, but the pain melted away into the shag down at my side. I laughed and said, "I never thought it would come to this," while visions of happy people darted past my eyes like bodied tracers.

First puff of smoke. First cigarette in four days. It tastes funny. I could have quit, but here I am, sick, cigarette in hand. Pathetic. Im pathetic, feeling not far from that dream. In fact, at two in the morning I awoke, believing that they were real memories, believing that I had indeed sunk into a shag-carpet live to die life. I watched "Sid and Nancy" the other night. Picture Mr. Vicious strung out on a floor with my face pasted over his...this is what I saw.

I feel like dancing. That's why I decided to smoke. When I start dancing, it's usually a sign that Im doing better. God, it's rough on the throat, smoking is. That was the longest I've gone since the hospital days. I could have quit. Maybe next time I get sick I'll quit. The taste, the smell. When you smoke as much as I do, it's clean as air. It's thick now, tastes like seventh grade hiding spots and watch box transportation. Graffiti painted walls and trains that take away little boys' legs. I put it out. Maybe I will quit. I don't really want to, too much pain, too many coffee days and bars in my future. I'm not prepared to let all of my vices go, when they're all I currently have.

I think it's safe to say I'm at rock now, though everytime I've said that the last couple months, I've managed to crash down another two or three levels I never knew existed. My life is dead. I'm excited to see that I'm still alive, it signifies that soon, I will get a new one. Who knows if it will be better, but at least it will be new. I've been waiting for this crash forever, silently praying for it. Im going to eat chocolate and use my throat spray and read books and fall asleep and dream about Christina Ricci and heroin. Maybe after I wake up, move to San Diego or Amsterdam and wear dresses all year round and flowers in my hair and skateboard and kiss beautiful people and write about little girls and their puppies and drink beer in excess while painting the red and black abstract graveyard I climbed out of. I'll laugh until I cry, the laughter of a woman, and I'll sing into a microphone to people who understand the secret language of the escape artist.

Mysterious Cecilie

We now have a purpose to look through Greg's shit, a mission, something to find: Cecilie.

The phone rang this morning. I went out to see if someone left a message and I heard a static covered voice still talking. I assumed it was Greg's ex-fiance leaving me a message about coming to take out Sniffy, which it was, but to get to this message I had to sort through others.

Message number two, a woman sounding quite upset and somewhat frantic. I skipped past it, waiting for Lauren to arrive before further investigation. When she came over we listened to the following message:

"Hi Greg...It's me. Do NOT show up at the breakfast...ummmm...I'm going to be giving everybody your liscence plate number and a description of what you look like. If you show up with an entourage I'll make sure you're all removed. I'll be citing the fact that you're emotionally abusive and the fact that I feel threatened by you. (voice shaking) This isn't a joke anymore. It's going this way (jumbled words follow) I don't have a problem taking you to court."

Whoa. So, our assumptions were correct about Greg, he's a psychopath. Next question, who is this frightened woman and what did he do to her?

Message number three, the same voice, starting out with "It's Cecilie..." She's crying as she pleads him to take back a movie before he goes on his trip. Cecilie sounds terrified, which is somewhat amusing if you'd only heard this message and not the preceeding one.

Cecilie's Cards

Lauren and I found some cards sitting on the kitchen table, two from Cecilie.

The first one: 1/7/03 "Dear Greg, I appreciate your soul, spirit and your grouchy self. They are all part of someone I hold dear. Hope this New Year's brings more moments, Take care, Cecilie"

The second one: 3/2/03 (only nine days before the frantic message) "Dear Greg, I thought I should write you this blurb because I know the last few weeks have been tough. I want you to know that I'm here as long as you want me to be. I know you will find a job, find peace-it's just going to take time. Remember to breathe and be in the moment with yourself and with me. Jeg Elsker Cleg! Cecilie."

What happened in those nine days? To be continued...

The Greg Experiment

I'm at Greg's house right now with his dog Baron Von Sniffy. Sniffy is a small black rodent-looking thing with a wiggly nose and a long snout. Sniffy is the only tail-less dog I've ever seen. He runs around in circles and barks quite a bit. His dad won best in show once-upon-a-time. It's safe to say that Sniffy has come to his insanity through trying to live up to the legacy his celebrity father left behind him.

I'm house-sitting. Ten days I have to explore the innerworkings of the man known simply as "Greg." He has asked me to dig through his belongings and come to some kind of conclusion about the kind of man he is and the kind of life he leads. I have asked several people to aid me in this exploration, Sabrina, Lindsey, Darryl(the dude who looks like a fraggle) and Lauren. I will document our findings in this blog.

What We Already Know About Greg

Not much.

I met him at my friend Todd's house a couple weeks ago. He is the only straight man in Todd's circle of friends. He's balding and looks a bit like Sniffy as far as the rodent thing goes. I guess the celebrity he most resembles is Chris Elliot, yeah, a skinnier Chris Elliot. When I first met Greg he bothered me. I don't remember why, but I found myself irritated to the point of mocking everything he said, fucking with him every chance I got. He later asked Todd why I hated him, and why it was that every girl fell in love with Todd and not him...how unfair this was since Todd is gay. This struck Todd and I as hilarious. It wasn't my love for Todd that stopped me from liking Greg...it was Greg.

First lesson learned: Greg is paranoid, delusional and exceptionally easy to fuck with.

My next Greg encounter happened, as I see it, on accident. During the blackout of my drinking binge, forementioned, Greg suddenly appeared on Sabrina's couch. Coming to, I thought how odd and ridiculous it was that he was with us. I slowly started remembering incidents that took place that night where he was present, but it's still a complete mystery to me how he came to join us. He started feeling sick on the couch and went home. That's all I remember. Sabrina told me the next day that Greg was "booty dancing" with her to gangsta rap. This disturbs me. I'm thankful I don't remember it.

Greg is a light-weight.

Yes, Greg can't handle his drink, which takes us to encounter number four, the last and final encounter.(encounter number three consists of me checking out his house, meeting his dog, standing in the snow and Greg saying "Ill have what shes having" at the coffeeshop we met Todd and friends at afterwards) Lauren and I were laying around my house trying to decide whether or not my fake id looked enough like me to get us alcohol when I gave in...I called Greg and invited him over to drink beer with us. I had my celebratory wig on(our original intentions were of going to a secret party, but we couldnt get a hold of our friend who had the entrance password) and it struck me as hilarious to see that Greg was also wearing a wig. Lauren joined in with a hairpiece and the three of us went to Safeway. So far so good...

We get back to my house and the drinking begins. Lauren and I catch up, as Greg thumbs through the pictures I keep throwing at him to keep him occupied and distracted. This goes on to about the beer and a half mark, when Greg still on his first beer, but drunk, gets up and starts dancing to Iggy Pop's "Never Met A Girl Like You Before." He flails himself around my apartment, inviting the skateboard to dance with him, beginning to roll himself around on the floor on it, smashing into walls. At first, Lauren and I are kind of laughing in a "what the hell is he doing?" kind of way, because it was too mind-blowing to be funny. Greg is quiet and insecure. He started dancing to show his wild side, but failed miserably. He kept going throughout the entire song, our faces trapped in the traditional watching a trainwreck grimace and finally collapsed on the floor. Lauren and I couldn't look him in the eye until we were sure it was done and over, then we pretended it didnt happen. One of the most painful few minutes I've ever had to endure.

Greg knows no boundaries.

He settled down and joined in our conversation. I learned from this conversation that he is thirty(though he looks forty) has been married once to a verbally and sexually abusive woman and engaged to another woman who apparently dumped him and broke his heart. This second woman is Baron Von Sniffy's mother and will be coming over here to walk him at some point during my stay. These are the only two women Greg has ever been involved with. He admitted to fooling around with men in college. He went into some detail about this, but I'd rather not talk about it.

Beer number two: Greg has low self-esteem and is sickly needy of reassurance.

"I'm so ugly," Greg whined over and over and over again. I hate having to reassure people, but I did it anyway, letting my annoyance slip though between the words, "No you're not." He asked me what my type was, what I looked for in a man. Lauren answered for me, talking up my love for "personality", which perhaps got his hopes up or something. I should have opened up my mouth and said, "Beauty and perfection, or a nice body and money" something so he'd know he wasn't my cup of tea. But alas, I did not which lead to comments from Greg such as "I think you're sexy", "My ex-girlfriend reminds of you" and the straw that broke the universal camel's back "Where are YOU sleeping?" Ughhhh...

Greg has a crush on me and through his delusional eyes doesn't understand that there's no chance in hell. He was so far gone that he thought he was spending the night with me. Bahhhhh...We told him we were going to bed and it took him forever to leave. He did not know when to leave, as if he has no social graces, zero common sense. It freaked us out. Almost as much as when he revealed that the reason he asked me, a near stranger, to house-sit was because he assumed Id look through his shit. I would ordinarily never ever even think of invading someone's privacy, but since he asked me to I said I would. "No one's ever cared enough to look through my stuff before," he said with a sigh that made our stomachs turn in unison.

So, both in conclusion, and for starters, we know that Greg is the most miserable creature on the earth.