I stumble and fall on my knees as a sudden wave of dizziness hits me and the overwhelming desire to throw up slams into me in full force. This has to happen at least once per day, more often than not, thrice. It's Nature's way of telling me that I screwed up, fucked up so bad that I don't know which way's left, right, or down. Whether it be from a hangover or just plain nausea, it just has to happen. Period.
Fallen from fucking high grace to this…how did Collins put it before? "Cold bohemian hell." Collins has followed his beloved Angel's footsteps. I can't even scrounge up enough money to go pay their graves, side by side of course, a visit. Now that I think about it, it was mostly someone else paying for our rides to the cemetery. Almost never me. Most of the time…it was her paying our fare. She provided for me most of the time and now I can't tell her thanks. Can't tell her how much I've appreciated all the attention and care she's heaped on me. At the time, I thought she was just plain annoying, always hanging on to me like a lovesick Akita.
My beeper starts beeping, begging for attention. One day, I'll have to pawn that thing, but it's the only thing that reminds me to take my AZT. As I pop the pills into my mouth and down my throat, I remember Mimi. Poor baby, she was always so fun loving and lively, always cheering us up when we were down. Like the rest of us, she had her 'down' days, but they never lasted too long. Her grave is one I definitely cannot visit, no matter how much I want to. Her parents finally took notice and had her buried back at their home somewhere below the U. S. of A.
I've grown distant, drifted further apart from the rest of the group. This had already been occurring, but she had always been my bridge connecting to the gang. To reality. To life. And I never realized it until now. It sounds so clichéd, doesn't it, but it's my life. I always don't appreciate what I have or had until I lose it and finally see that I needed it. That's why I end up alone in the bathroom every day, holding the needle to my pale skin and shooting up. "You don't want to do that, baby. That's gonna kill you one day. It's the same effect as putting a gun to your temple and pulling the trigger, only in slow motion."
That's what she told me one time after she caught me doing it after a stressful day. I'd promised her that I wouldn't do it again, would never even touch the needle. What the hell, now that she's dead, all bets are off. But who'm I fooling when I say that? Nobody, not even myself. If I don't die from the drugs, AIDS, or the heavy drinking first, my conscience's going to kill me off.
I've never liked drinking much. Sure, I'd take a glassful or so at a party and then I'd get coaxed into another glassful until, before anyone knew it, I'd be off of my head. But I've never liked it, not the taste, the feeling, and certainly not the horrible hangovers that I always get the morning after. But I understand how people become drunkards. They drown their feelings in drinking, because, especially if they hate the drink, they can focus on how bad it tastes and stuff and forget about their feelings. That's why I end up on the streets every morning, with a bad aftertaste in my mouth and a pounding in my head. And it's at those times that I feel at my lowest.
Sometimes after these episodes, I drag myself to the now empty and abandoned loft. The door's never locked, probably because the officials figured that no one they should be concerned about is going to hang out there. I climb out the window to the balcony and watch the early morning sun rise and I wonder if I'll be able to live through another day and see a sunrise like that again. And when the feelings inside of me rise to a climax, I open my mouth and scream my feelings to the violet clouds and the birds shitting on the various roofs of the apartments. People look up at me reproachfully, some just woken by my noise, others annoyed at the morning stillness being broken. But I don't care, flipping my middle finger at them, before ignoring them. I yell, scream, cry, shriek. Maybe if I make enough noise, she'll look down from heaven or up from hell and see me. "POOKIE!" I scream. "COME BACK, JOANNE! PLEASE!"