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deputy

I. There were these times when my best friend was a girl and I was happy with it. In my adult life. I read about this in certain ways now, sometimes in magazines articles or in books with special essays or short stories. Not about the best friend part because that's how the whole thing ends horribly too. The whole thing ends and I can't even retell it the right way because I don't remember it. I remember the beginning so perfectly that it is almost comical. I can even remember the middle. The end is lost on me. The end must always be so bad that my brain just does away with it. Does it really disappear? Or does it put it somewhere else? Did I put it somewhere else myself--- like I am doing now by making it public record. Explaining that I slept for twelve hours but I don't know why. "Your body must have needed it," someone will say. My body. I don't know, I am not sure if I have known what my body has needed for years. One way I have always kept track is by being able to say "One year ago around this time..." and then "Two years ago around this time.." until I cannot remember. And then there are some months or holidays that I cannot really find parts of. Or there were some stories where my best friend was a boy, a guy but when I tell that story I should be saying he was a man, and I should be calling him my best friend but I don't do either of those things. "You were miserable when it was happening." But was I? Was I? What was it like? Did I just learn to talk a certain way? And weren't all those things supposed to fix my brain? The year I stopped writing. The year I stopped thinking. The year I stopped. There were times when my best friend was a girl and I was happy with it. This is a story of adult female friendship but it digs into your girlhood bones, it scrapes your childhood knees the same ones you sold for better scraps of fabric and bigger cities with brighter lights and names you didn't know. It couldn't have told you that you'd learn them all anyway, like the words to any song (every song) like reality television, like maps, street grids, finger tips, tricks. Magic tricks. This is because you knew the books to read and remembered the end, and filled in the details that I deleted from the computer. That I apologized for profusely but there is nothing you until those shadows come back and they holds your hands and wrap their arms around you in the bed & tell you all the secrets and text you the addresses so maybe that way men don't smother you in your sleep. So that way maybe.

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Hysteria is not possible without an audience, that's why I need you baby. I've always needed you.







I have kept this blog since my first day of high school. It has been an outlet, a blessing, a curse. I talk extensively about anything, music, dudes, internet addiction &how text messaging ruined my life. Some entries are "friends only" but most everything else is public.

Danielascrima@gmail.com




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