Slutever is a blog where I endlessly rant about the lives of myself and those close to me. For a change, I thought it would be nice to get someone else’s opinion on this collective existence. If you read this blog, by now you’re familiar with Bunny. Bunny is my best friend and a fiction writer (a really good one, I rip him off constantly). Today I’ve asked him to tell us, in his own words, just how and why he came to London one year ago. Here is part 1. To be continued...
When I wake up I’m splayed across the kitchen floor still wearing someone else’s shoes and jacket, some sort of souvenirs from the night before, I’m not sure, I can’t remember. There’s like dried blood all over my hands and knees and everything smells like piss, I don’t know if it’s from me or the cat curled up on top of my chest. The last thing I can see inside my head is going to a random dude’s house somewhere in Brooklyn, a bunch of ugly people sitting pretty, smoking crack and snorting speed. I lick the walls, they look like ketchup. And then I’m running. I remember running through a park really fast. And then that’s it. Dark, dead, kitchen floor, uh huh, who cares, whatever.
It’s been three years in New York and I’m having little breakdowns every day now. I get caught with a Capri Sun stuffed down my jeans as I try to leave the grocery store, I lock myself inside a Starbucks bathroom for three hours cause I can’t stand the smell of coffee. I sit for days inside my room pretending that I’m paralyzed and the only time my body moves is when Lily lays on top of me, saying Please Get Up Because I Love You and I have to use my arms to push her off. All the stupid things I do to feed my need for meaningless self-sabotage, I guess I like the way it feels to be pathetic.
I stagger to the sink and wash the blood from off my hands and feed the cat, then stand there, silent, watching him stab savage at each tasteless looking dried brown crunchy thing with his tiny teeth until he stops mid-chew and looks up, staring back at me, our eyes are locked and waiting. What Now? we both seem to wonder, then his head ducks back down into the bowl.
“Bunny--I mean Jordan or... whatever--I don’t know where he is but I think he might be dead.” That’s what my old roommate Patty told my mom when I ran away to California for those few forgotten weeks last year when no one knew how they could find me. “I’m fine,” I told my frantic mother, reluctant from an Oakland payphone. “I’m just like uh I guess, whatever, bored,” I say, sounding retarded as I once again repeat my most essential teenspeak mantra. Later, when I’m finally forced to wander back to Bushwick, I decide to spend the next year slowly throwing out my shit, encouraged as I wake up every morning still thinking that Today’s The Day I Disappear. “I’m afraid one day I’ll come home and you’ll just be gone,” Lily used to say to me. She burned it in my selfish brain like a horoscope that doesn’t change, a self-fulfilling prophecy you got no other choice but to believe.
How are you? Everything is fantastic here. The weather is so hot, I just sit on the beach all day in my bikini, I fucking love it. If it weren’t for you and Pan and New York and real life, I’d never leave. Rima is here--she’s engaged now. The wedding is in September, everyone is so excited. By the time you get this I’ll probably be on my way home. I can’t wait. India is amazing but I miss you so much. It’s been the best six weeks but I need to come home now. Wait for me. And remember to feed Pan.
x x Lily
That night I pack a bag with two shirts and some extra shoes and stand on the corner where the bus that takes me to the airport stops. I see some kid I know across the street, he shouts at me Where Are You Going? and I say Last Minute Trip To London But I’ll Be Back Soon, he says So Long and I do too. I hold my breath and close my eyes and count as high as I can go and for one weird second lost inside my own dumb desperate urgency, it seems as if I really know exactly what I’m doing.