Stalking in the Free World
By Debbie “TNT” Kirk
So I just got back from a vacation to New York City. Fuckin’ love that city and never want to leave when I visit. However, I did travel by train and that’s my favorite mode of transportation so that was cool. Unfortunately I got sick on my vacation, spent most of it down. I had planned to stalk Jeffrey McDaniels. I got a couple of emails from him. He was hosting a poetry reading in upstate NY. But he himself wasn’t reading so I wasn’t really into it. So, as far as stalking is concerned, I’ve got no new news to report. I’m still slowly getting every movie or appearance that Jack Black has ever made. For my monthly two cents I’d like to publish a poetry entry from a while back. As always I’m open to questions, hate mail, explosives, and dead things…
"There are no atheists in the trenches..." ????
A person can fall, once or twice even round the same corner. And a person can sink when things get sticky like pink taffy i always had crammed in my pockets when I was little. But one can only sink so low, fall so far. And then I think maybe that person goes away. I'm not sure.
I know jj will never talk to me again now because yes I'm fucking high. But, my therapy assignment was to kinda allow myself to have a vacation without being critical...and to really absorb the vibe of NYC. Anyway, I have a lot to report as it was an eventful couple of days and I haven't had the chance to sit down and lay it out.
Well, I spent last night in jail. Yes, jail. For all my tough girl facade and street smarts, I've only ever been arrested one other time and that's for drinking when I was 18. My ex John and a couple of his friends invited me out for a drink. This was on that day, yesterday, where I was saying NO MORE POT, but ALCOHOL that's a whole other deal.... So I went out with them. And I know it's not only clichéd but terribly trendy...but it really is like Kurt Cobain with him. We all know he has bleeding ulcers from drinking and doesn’t drink much anymore. But his friends sat there and bought him scotch after scotch until he was the village idiot. He started in with his "I'm going to kill myself since I can't have you and also I will never be able to write" and I snapped. So I started knocking back the drinks. There was something concerning the door cover, (mainly that NONE of us paid it) so the cops were assembled. I was so goddamn close to making it out of there ok. We were on our way to the car and a lot of people were standing around as it was past last call. As I was walking the short black cop (Napoleon complex) *(I’m not sorry if this is not politically correct enough for you)* starting laughing and pointing at me, and he said something. So, I did that drunk flip over thing in my head I refer to as the hulk. All of the sudden your chest and shoulders are three feet off the ground and I mumbled out "What did you say to me?" He threw me over the dirty car right there in front of all of them. So, one more time I was assuming the position of guilt against my will. Don't you see the pattern here? Is anybody reading? I'm re-creating it over and over. I'm being raped again and again. I'm in a cycle and it certainly ain't nowhere cool as my friend Sean's Ducatti.
I met like 4 different girls in the cell that night. They all came and went quickly as most of them had warrants for other shit so they just got a court date, and split. They were keeping me for four hours to, uh? sober up? Scare me? Provoke me? abuse me again? I don't know.
But I left feeling like a criminal. A criminal who'd just been robbed of everything. And as my warped brain does it turned to thoughts of suicide. Then I went in to see my therapist and again, she saved my life. For now at least. The first things she did was remind me that my attack was a little over three months ago but I seem to be beating myself up because I'm not past it. I'm scared in parking lots. I can't breathe in elevators, I get paranoid at stoplights of a car thief with oil underneath their fingernails.
So let me get back to where I was...laying on the ground. I was resentful that I was the only one arrested and they just totally bailed on me. The second thing my therapist observed was how people around me expected me to be over it. Like when someone dies, then you fight over their wardrobe. True I'd not have much to fight over...but I've fallen off track. Sometimes John even wants me to help him get through it. My hands are full of plastic grocery bags full of ice. The sides off the bag nibbling into my skin, making them turn red and go numb. I cannot carry anything else.
Then I realized that sometimes in between all of the things I say, I sometimes say things that get me that look. That look is one of pity. It's the two people in the room I see in my peripheral acknowledge an uncomfortable moment. I'm the crazy girl at the art house. I'm that girl who's still cute, still has a glimpse of her cutting wit on the odd hours of every Leap year. The person who was here 3 months ago is no longer here. Which reduces me to that of an infant as I don't even know what my favorite foods and health habits are, much less what I started fighting for or about the poem that came to someone in a dream of me cutting out my pussy with razorblades and putting it on a pie platter in a box. Served.
I don't know what I started out walking towards, and I don't feel as though it could be worth all these calluses. Also it's hard to stick around waiting on a fair score when you know good and goddamn well that no one is keeping score.
For weeks I've been wanting to Call Christy in Austin and Dawn in Cali and for weeks I've been talking myself out of it for different reasons. None of which have anything to do with anything that matters when you have a moment just like out of "say anything". "I'm not gonna start smoking again, I just needed to get high" "I won't drink any more, I was celebrating"...."Everything was beautiful and nothing hurt."
"It's sad, what happened to that girl."
"I heard her parents used to put her in a closet, is that true?"
"I heard she was related to one of the Manson sisters."
"Actually she got raped, and then she starting going crazy and she never came back."
"Didn't she write something?"
"Not yet, but she would have. She really would have."
I’m not punk rock I just don’t like you
I don’t think I’ve ever referred to myself as
“punk rock”
But during the Mardi Gras parade
Me and my friend Dawn
Spit on the yachts and the
Girls.
I’ve squatted
I’ve traveled
Dawn would bring her dog “Gummo”
I never hopped a train
Though,
I’ve always wanted to.
We would drink jugs of wine from the time we woke up
Until the time we passed out.
Cough syrup
Valium
Pot
Cocaine
Acid
It didn’t matter
Hit me up
Get me high
I don’t want to think
Anymore.
Once I took down the front sign
Of a whataburger
With my head.
I think that was the year Dawn
Got hooked on smack and took off
And I also got hit in the head with a beer bottle
At the Billy Childish show
Those days are long gone
I have too many laid before me
Hurts my eyes to look
There are days
When I just don’t even think
I should make it.
And then I think
I should’ve hopped those fucking trains
And brought back more memories
To fill this empty head.
At least I know I’m no good
It’s inside you, too
you just don’t know it.
It’s right under the surface
with scraggly nails.
trying to scratch it’s way through
It’s that first thought that comes to you
and you quickly discredit
and move along.
Sometimes this is even done subconsciously.
For me
it was eating me out
from the inside.
Really gutted
and left raw.
For me
it was not a choice.
When you are telling me a story
I’m wondering how much cash you have
in your wallet
and how I can get it out.
When you leave me alone in your apartment
I case the joint for things to sell,
drugs to take.
And wonder if you will notice
If a few shirts are missing.
When you are fucking me,
I’m waiting for you to finish,
Looking at the dirt under my nails
and wondering if I could ask you for cash.
And if so
how much?
And
I wonder if I would have change
for a twenty.
I hate you when you want to fuck me
I hate you when you don’t
I’m not a good girl
and I don’t try to hide it anymore.
When I’m on the Subway.
I’m itching for a gun.
And wanting
to hijack the mother fucker
for the joy I would get from seeing all of those
faces
cry around me
a real baptismal at gunpoint
in the New York Subway.
I steal the change from donation jars
I push my empty grocery cart
towards your SUV
and I look at the way your husband
holds your daughter
and wonder if you know he fucks her.
I ain’t no rebel
I am led by primal screams.
I would like to put you on your knees,
hold a knife to your throat
and make you say dirty things about yourself.
If you suddenly died in your sleep
I would dismember your corpse
and bury you in the trashiest places in town.
It’s the “good” thoughts that I push away.
I’m magnetized to the bad ones.
I was made this way
a play doh factory
mixed all the used up
dried out colorless doh,
and made me into the shape
of a girl carrying a noose,
or the trigger to her head.
So unless you’re ready
for one hell of a ride,
don’t listen to your guts
don’t follow your first instincts.
Most importantly don’t follow me.
I don’t like people standing behind me
and when I get claustrophobic,
I clear the room…
real bloody like.
You’ll never understand why I am so cold.
I’ll never understand
how you can smile so much
without your face hurting.
And mostly,
this is the best explanation I have
for why I have to say goodbye.
don't miss Debbie's new book ---> I Hit Like a Girl
Debbie Kirk
