Absinthe tastes like licorish that someone ate, shit out, and bottled.

Everything else is good, though... and each mug is sugar-cube sized. So my theory is this: I keep one mug for the absinthe, and for each mug of other-stuff I drink, I'll drink a mug of absinthe, and keep this up until the little bottles are gone and I've had at least one mugful of cinnamon.

This seems like a reasonable plan, just now.

Depressed.

Bored.

There's a virgin - male - sleeping on the couch out in the family room. Unattached male. Dammit. I know I'm supposed to have morals, where the fuck did I leave them this time?

And why can't I stop thinking about Angel?

Then again, maybe absinthe isn't such a great idea after all. I just poured a mini-mug-full and the stuff REEKS. Too many years spent 'enjoying' NyQuil, I guess. The smell... geh. *shudders* I'd kill for some good Absolut Currant right now. THAT I'd have fun sipping.

One sugar cube. One tablespoon of alcohol. I should be able to get this down, right?

It's almost pavlovian... I smell this scent and I get both queasy and giddy.

I remember lying, hurting, sick, on a stale worn-out mattress, watching wrestling, the taste of NyQuil fresh in my mouth, thinking that this time, it wouldn't all fall apart. I remember being sprawled under a thick quilt, wincing each time I heard footsteps, not sure why I wasn't home, not sure where home was, and that same green hell making my mind fuzz. I remember the feel of the couch under my cheek as I stared at QVC, waiting to get drowsy, dizzy, so I could crawl into the bedroom and curl up next to someone I cared about rather than mindlessly watching late-night television.

I remember what it's like to be well, too. Really I do. It's... it's this thing, almost a physical THING, you can almost hold it, and everything you do feels... different. Like maybe you're not actually dying inside.

Yeah, I'm a bit depressed.

Not like I was. No. Just... dark smoky green, and anise-flavored, and old.

Drink me?

The mug is still sitting there. It's hard to convince myself I WANT to drink anything that... nasty.

Perhaps chilled, in a better setting. Perhaps if I were already somewhat drunk. Perhaps if I were mind-numbingly stupid instead of just numb, period. Perhaps I shouldn't even be talking about this.

It's now 3:30, and there is still a virgin on the couch. Not downstairs, where I had originally thought he was, but on the couch. I've spent an hour very aware of him. He's asleep.

I want to do something. Have wanted to do something for quite a while now, actually. I checked the bottle, btw - 10 pills, not 15. And not even issued by my normal doctor. Weird.

Screw the absinthe, the smell alone is making me get all shaky and ick... or that could just be left over from the time spent at the engraver's today, smelling chemicals. By the time Deb and I left, I couldn't even breathe. If she asks me why I haven't written up a FAQ about the place yet it is for this reason: No time on the computer until I was tired and depressed and unable to write. Told her before (and will tell her again, no doubt), if she wants me to do anything productive, she needs to let me on the computer WHEN I CAN THINK CLEARLY, not six hours later when I'm tired and pissed off and just want to sleep.

Hm. Green liquid, with sugar. How bad could it REALLY be...?

Torian's online, now. It's... something. Distraction. Sanity. Part of me wishes Caleb were awake... most of me knows he needs his sleep, his job, his life. I hope he needs me, too.

Angel. Round and round in my head, and I keep coming back to her. All roads lead to... where?

I used to believe in a lot of stupid things.

I used to believe in God. I used to believe in Her. Hell, I even used to believe in me.

Green liquid mocking me from a cup I poured myself, neon green plastic swizzlestick to stir it, the smell of anise and illness filling the room. I remember her drunk. I found her beautiful even then. Saw... what was there, yes. But saw what she gave me, too.

I suspect that's part of what I try to be, to show, the ones who love me. To be for them what she never really was for me.

Safety.

Love.

And now me, awake here in Portland, staring alternately at the screen and at a doll-size mug of green forgetfulness. Valium and Absinthe.

Pathetic.

Sometimes I wonder if she saw this in me, saw this need to hide, to medicate, eradicate all thought until I can sleep peaceful and walk dreaming-while-awake, each breath pleasant instead of pain-filled. Maybe she saw this, and that's why she deemed me worthless.

The main reason I'm so f'ing GOOD at manipulating people, at getting what I want from them, at hurting them, at finding their fears...

...is because I've learned from the best. My mother. Michael. Her.

Green liquid and memories and gods, where did I fuck up? Where did I go wrong? Why does it hurt to even think, to breathe? Physical pain, mental pain, emotional pain. I wish they'd just put me on valium full-time. Take the edge off my thoughts. Make me... functional.

All roads...

The funny thing is, I don't think she ever loved me. I don't think she ever saw me as more than someone she could use, someone impressionable and malleable. Never... never anything more than that. Never. And yet I saw her as something amazing, something wonderful. Like I said, pathetic.

I try to believe that she just doesn't know what she's missing, that she doesn't matter, that she isn't the creature I believed (believe) her to be. It's no good, really. I...

...I am alive, because of her. I am who I am, because of her. She was, for a while, my world.

*snickers ruefully* My role model was a psychopathic, lonely, confused small-town girl who wasn't even out of high school. Not surprising, since at the time I was a psychopathic, lonely, confused small-town girl who wasn't even out of high school.

They say that to a mouse, all the Gods have tails... to a fish, all the Gods have scales. You worship what you know. I knew that I wanted to keep living but couldn't find any reason to.

She... was my reason.

I have better reasons now.

And still, a little cup of green liquid. I should just drink it. Maybe in a moment... I'll go get the valium first.

...and the two frappuchinos I got. Here's what I'll do - drink the green, drink a few mouthfuls of coffeedrink, pour the baileys and kahlua into the drink, and down it. Sounds like a plan. A good plan. A 4:00 in the morning plan... and to think, I started writing this at just about 2:30.

I'll go put the two big bottles away, first.

...and music. Maybe music will make this all ok.

Music... helps. Music, and a good friend and my boy and... and... gods, there must be something more. Oh. Yeah.

Drugs.

Alcohol.

Caffeine.

Bite, bite and drink... that, or die. Bonus points if you know which NON-VAMPIRE book that was from. *grins slightly* Triple points if you know why the person saying it is no one's little melon.

Yeah, lame references, and "Mad World" playing, and me still with a cup of greenery. Must drink.

Here goes...

GODS, that's nasty. Following it up with chocolate-nut fudge, trying to kill the taste. Trying and failing. Geh. It burns all the way down...

Pink, singing "Just Like A Pill".

Octaves and octane, I'm burning myself out, alone in a dead-end town.

Now... ahh, now, music from "XXX", because that is so what I need to hear. OD'ing, somewhat, on Tylenol PM and valium. In an hour I'll be sound asleep. No more wondering about the virgin on the couch. No more firefight. No more dreaming, blood-kisses and a hunger I don't want to hide.

No more of this, until I wake tomorrow.

*chuckles softly* Bang bang... click click boom... everywhere, it's destruction. Gotta love destruction. Anarchy. The end of the age... and we'll be here to see it, when the bomb goes off.

Ehh. Time to end this. It's 5:30.