suicide hotline


smack talk

i've successfully fled the "midwest" for the west coast and in neglect of human intuition i find myself inhabiting a small hotel: the palo alto (which means in spanish "tall crackhouse" or "big asylum": you know, something of the like).

it's all fitting since juarez mexico brought me to this place (another story entirely, so let's be on with it).

junkydom for junkydom. it's a trade off really. all i can say is that in the least i have my own room again; somethign that for me translates into sanity, safety, solitude. a place to write.

disjointed thoughts. i find here that wasting time is easy. there is always some distraction to keep you from yourself or what you mean to do. "i said something witty today but because i've been drinking i fail to remember". "i would like to share some idea but it's been lost in a korean girls thighs.

a boy across the hallway i sleep with but only when he wants it. you can travel miles but never get away from that.

there are more junkies but only because there are more corners. this is my big analogy; from my small city to this big one. here there is a pacifier for each mind but still the restless roam. they are fog on the bay.

i can't seem to step out from behind my mothers dead eyes.

there is someone i should call he has drugs.

been drinking too much. much like the last time i was here. i guess there is always something you shouldn't be doing then i realize vomiting might make me feel better.

listing off items from a grecian restaurant does not correlate with how cultured a person is. the notion of cultures itself is a laugh passed midnight.

pressing on is the most important.
emancipation is second.

i'll fall asleep. wake up in a white box. we are closest when our names fall on the same page of the obituary.

call and say what? i'm too fucked up to see you today, please try again tomorrow...but be assured that before this drudgery...i wanted you, very badly. now i'm too tired for even frenchie nothings and pain relievers. nothing gets us closer or frees us more than unconsciousness.

pick up the payphone...
dial the dealer.

---

Anne McMillen (AKA) AnnieM is a manic depressive who is currently living on the charity of her brothers couch. She is very single although there is a certain girl whose pants Annie is dying to get into, and there is also a guy who has a script for Oxycotin that Annie’s been thinking of “dating”. In her free time (which is all of her time) she enjoys substance abuse, video games, reading philosophy (because she is that pretentious), listening to music, and being a normal asshole from Ohio. When not busy playing pool or online spades, Annie some how fines time to write, obsessivly compulsivly, leaving her with a large arsenal of words she plans on unleashing on the “free” world.

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