I saw Bush. 

Oh, the Trauma (revisited)

This is a post that I have chosen to revise for a class that I am taking. the original was posted this time last year. Scarey how a year can change a person.

About halfway through my second bottle, I declared to myself that champagne was, from that point on, my drink of choice. I started drinking shortly after I got out of bed, which sounds bad, but in reality it was three in the afternoon, so it was really quite reasonable. I drank because life bored me, or maybe I was terribly, utterly sad. In any case, I could not think of anything else that would be as fun would require such little effort.
So, I got the bottles with big, fat corks that are impossible to put in once removed, making it necessary to finish the whole bottle before it goes flat so that no money is wasted. I was about halfway through my second bottle when Don called and said he was picking me up in five minutes. I downed the rest of the bottle and went outside to smoke a cigarette and wait.
I suppose that Don picked me up because the next thing I knew I was naked in a hot tub. The grittiness of the cement on my bare bottom, was the only thing I could feel at that point. To me it was nails on a chalkboard, which might explain why I got so irritated at the girl sitting across from me when she asked if I was all right. Of course I was not all right, but in my mind, that was none of her business; besides she was fat and the sight of her naked body was making me nauseous. I told her to fuck off. She must have taken offense to that because the next thing I knew the water level in the hot tub got lower as she lifted her fat ass out of it and stomped into the house.
I forgot all about Fat Girl until her friend, the girl whose hot tub I was sitting in, (I think her name was Leah) came out to ask why Fat Girl left. Don explained what had happened and then Leah, apparently oblivious to the fact that I was slightly unstable, started to scold me. My soul was warring.
This Leah chick might have said five words to me before I was out of the hot tub and on my way to her deathbed. The way I saw it, this Leah chick needed to be knocked down a notch. Who the fuck did she think she was? She epitomized all that was wrong in the world to me. I knew that if I kicked and bitted and wriggled hard enough, the people holding me back from her would give up, enabling me to satisfy my bloodlust. If I could just get one hand on her, I knew she would not walk away without a chunk of flesh missing - all I wanted was to break her open.
My small body felt enormous with power. I wanted to kick her feet out from under her so that she fell sideways - dumb - then grab her hair and pull her head up and *pound, pound*!!, push her back down by her forehead again and again. After that became tedious, I would either stand up and start stomping on her skull with my bare feet, water still dripping off my naked body; or maybe I would stomp on her neck. I could imagine the texture of her Adam’s apple crunching under the arch of my foot - I could taste the iron in
the blood that would gush onto her taste buds.
This is how I wanted it to happen: I would stand there, panting, while everyone looked on in horror. A siren would wail in the distance, the chlorine would dry on my skin, smell sweet, and the camera would fade to black. Of course, none of that happened and the ending is a lot less satisfying: I woke up alone with my head in my toilet, my hair floating on top of the water in the vomit filled bowl.

In the corner

In the corner behind me, a caged bird sings. An afternoon breeze billows the delicate, green curtains, cools the warm summer afternoon. From the deep chair where I am sitting I can see, through a southern facing window, the trees saluting the breeze; their leaves reflecting the sun like a million mirrors. Groove Armada’s Down by the River plays like a soundtrack.
The room is cool because of its white marble floors, slightly dark because of its position in relation to the sun. The chair in which I am sitting in is green and covered in soft velvet. Most everything in the room is green. The table next to me is green, the glass out of which I am drinking a martini is green, the olive in the martini is green. Condensation forms on the glass, marks its territory on the table, making the green darker. This room is my mental greenhouse, fertilizer for my soul.
It is a small room with only a few bits of furniture. It would feel bare were it not for the tall, wooden bookcases brimming with books that line the walls. The smell of the books - peppery, dusty paper - permeates the room and when I breathe in it settles thick on the back of my tongue.
The smell makes me comfortable, and combined with the warmth of the afternoon and the martini I soon begin to feel drowsy. As I settle back into my chair and feel the alcohol buzz through my body, numbing it. I am aware of my teeth and feel myself sinking deeper into my chair. In the corner behind me, a caged bird sings.