GOTH GIRL INTERRUPTED
Long black hair. Moonlight complexion. Gaunt. I think her eyes were technically green or blue, but they looked grey. She was twenty-six when she was smiling. Fifty when she was not. Her real age was somewhere in between.
I was her doctor for a week in the hospital. She wasn't your usual heroine addict. I mean sure, she was on methadone (legitimately, some lie), but she wasn't constantly trying to get you to increase her pain medication for vague complaints like a punctuation mark at the end of every compliment.
In fact, she refused all narcotics. At least until the surgeons had to slice open her rib muscles and put a chest tube in her.
You wouldn't guess she was a former heroin addict. Or that she had hepatitis C. You probably would have guessed she was a goth girl. But even goth girls become disillusioned with the romanticism of death sometimes.
"Your TB test was negative," I told her at the bedside.
"It's so funny. When I was a kid, I remember reading about TB and thinking how romantic it all sounded. I used to wish, if only I could have TB. Ow, it's not very romantic at all," she smiled, almost childishly.
"Yeah, I guess the sickly look was pretty popular. They used to call it the Consumption," I added. Tuberculosis used to be called The Consumption by writers because of how the afflicted would "gradually become consumed by their inner fiery torment." To paraphrase another writer, "writers are fucking liars."
I enjoyed talking to her, as a contemporary in manner as well as age. Although she was older, it didn't feel like it. She was also very considerate, despite being the sick one. I could tell she used to be shy, but with age, the acuteness of the malady of shyness becomes less pronounced.
She also refrained from the usual sarcasm and doctor stereotyping that other patients frequently resort to in an effort to comfort themselves in this strange sterilized land. She'd brighten up when I walked in, nod and smile enthusiastically to my inquiries, end sentences as if there was some mischievous secret she was holding back, and was about the most cheerful person I've had in a long time despite looking like Morticia's sister.
"Was that chest tube pretty painful going in?" I'd ask.
"Well, yeah. Definitely the most painful thing I've ever had. I like your tie," she'd smile with big eyes.
On her last day in the hospital, she was fine, and her husband would pick her up later. I wondered what he was like, since I never saw him visiting her. She hesitated and started asking me more personal questions like where I was from or where I was going. Personal but not intrusive. We also talked about how her major reason for the pneumonia was her smoking. I mentioned how two previous young patients of mine developed lung abscesses from heavy marijuana use.
"I hate pot," she opined, "People think just because you don't pass out drunk that it's okay, or that driving while high is okay. It really screws up your depth perception. Definitely not my drug of choice."
"That's good," I grinned in agreement.
"You probably don't smoke, or drink. No drugs either, right?"
"No, nothing."
"That's smart. I met Lou Reed once when I was a teenager," she confessed quietly yet confidently, "I wanted to be a writer like him, you know, and drugs seemed so glamorous in the songs back then. True artists were junkies. Heroin was cool, would free your mind and all that. Silly," she paused.
"Artists like their vices. I've heard it makes them more creative. Plus the experience is good material to draw from, I guess," I suggested.
"It was just the opposite for me though. I found I did my best writing only after I stopped heroin. I was more productive and my writing was much clearer. Anyways, they always sing about how good it [heroin] feels, but they never really tell you the real side of it. So stupid," she grinned apologetically.
"We all have our vices. Do you still write?" I changed the subject.
"Yeah, it's just ... I like to ... I've had two works published, just online I mean."
"Cool, I'll do a search."
"My nom de plume is Sigourney [Last Name]. I loved her in the Alien movies. Plus, she's tall like me. I'm six foot, I mean five-ten."
"The Alien movies are awesome. Wow. I would have never guessed you were that tall. I can never tell when people are laying in bed," I said.
"I used to hate being six foot, always standing out, never asked out. Then I became a junkie and I shrunk two inches. Now I wish I was six foot again, heh. Everyone has been really nice here."
"That's good to hear. You've been great too," I said my usual line, perhaps no truer than in this particular case.
"I wanted to thank you. For ... not treating me like a junkie. Some people ...," she said trailing off into unspoken thoughts and then she added with less confidence and even more sincerity,
"I'm ... going to miss you."
Thanks for not treating me like a doctor.
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FEED ME
ME: "Hey, your nipples are leaking in this picture."
AMY: "So what. I just had a baby and it's feeding time."
Yeah, so Amy said I could post it anyways. I just thought she looked sexy in this one.
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NOTHING SAYS "I LOVE YOU" LIKE P0RN
(and a sign on it saying "I love you")
I still get a kick out of these automatic sign generator sites - well, the pr0n ones anyways. Make yourself feel loved. (Link NOT SAFE FOR WORK unless you work in ADMINISTRATION, in which case what are you gonna do-fire yourself?)
You know this is why you started an online journal/surf the net in the first place.
The pic below was modified because I like 'em classy. Or naked.
(I don't post this for you. I post this for me.)
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