By: Thomas

Thomas — Wed, 05 Apr 2006 18:10:12 +0000

“Jesus Christ! I was in fucking jail all fucking night long and all you can talk about is how some celebrity is dead. Do you even know him? NO! You know me, but you don’t give a shit about what I’ve had to go through.” She was nearly hyperventilating in anxiety. Her brain kept telling her to shut up, but the emotional dam had burst and would not be denied. “It smelled like piss, Becca. I don’t like piss. I fucking hate the smell of piss, Becca. I had to stay awake all night.” Her voice started to break up. Sleep, at the moment, seemed like a commodity more precious than gold. “And yet now I’m somehow supposed to forget that I was ABANDONED,” her body shook as the word left her lips, “and join your pity party about some fucking famous stranger who died? Big Fucking Deal! You know what? You take your shitty dead celebrity mourning ass home and leave me COMPLETELY alone. You always do this to me, Becca: You get wrapped up in your own universe that ends at the ends of your god-damned fingertips! Am I even real to you? Do I really exist to you or am I some random variable you sometimes decide to include in your own little world? Well fuck you! I am real! I am real!” The sound of her heart beating drowned out the sound of anything else. Hearing nothing but the fast but steady ga-thump of her heart, which she was sure was about to explode, she never had the chance to hear the door slam, the door’s 60 year old frame cracking a little bit more or her roommate begging her not to go. It was all for the better: The bitch was back and ready to drive a number two pencil through the eye of anyone that dared fuck with her. Kurt fucking Cobain indeed.

Comments on: a selection of record reviews i wrote in 1993 & 1994 or, why my career as a rock critic never quite got off the ground

By: Thomas