Tonight she got a big bad buzzing bumble bee up her ass again about some fucking thing or another.
I could only guess… at her mental state, since she doesn’t have the slightest ability to express her feelings in calm dialogue. At least not when she’s in her shit.
Which is often.
Every time I try and talk about feelings or memories or traumas with her she tells me to shut the fuck up, shunning any meaningful discussion like the Plague.
She only wants to forget forget forget it ALL and have fun. Fun fun fun…
But it’s long gotten past the point where the drugs she takes to have her fun and relief are any fun or relief anymore at all. She is simply living in a dark, twisted little world of self-induced psychosis and blatently irrational self-justified, self-authorized, self-obsessed self-destruction.
And still she insists, MUST insist she’s just having her innocent, harmless adolescent little fun.
Today I watched her take a big hit of crack then choke on it like a cat hacking up a hairball. Finally she vomited a handful of greenish bile into a baseball cap she’d been wearing, casually dumped it out the window, then put the cap back on her head.
That was it.
After that, I just hadda split and let her have the rest of her big fucking fun alone for the rest of the day. Even a fucking lovesick hungry buzzard like me has his limits. I split.
When I finally went to look in on her many hours later, her deep-seated self-induced abandonment complex was on full blast and she just started brewing. Brewing and brewing, till, before I knew it, another violent, embarassing public scandal was in full raging insanity.
Now I’m sitting all alone at my little sanctuary by the rolling waves at the far end of Copacabana under a cloudy full moon sky, waiting for dawn and trying to put it all together.
It all started cuz she spent the last 12 hours locked in a little room smoking crack alone. Now, I know I left her alone, knowing full well that Narcisa doesn’t like to be alone. But what else could I do?
Thinking about it all now I’m thinking that, for someone who hates to be alone, it’s really quite ironic that she’s chosen to dedicate her life to the constant pursuit and adulation of the one drug that most completely and effectively cuts one off from the human race like a gangrous limb, sucking her right down into a swirling whirlpool of paranoid, psychotic, self-obsessed dementia and endless isolation.
I know she felt abandoned today after two days being left alone to smoke in the big abandoned house on the hill. But I couldn’t stay around her to watch her doing what she does.
Not today.
She’s been up for a few days again. And now she’s gotten to the point where she hasn’t bathed or changed her clothes in a whole week now. What the fuck?
I’m the only one left who can tolerate her shit, and even I can only take it in small doses now. Its very sad, but there you have it.
So when I finally went back after all those hours to look in on her, she’d already gotten herself worked up into a pretty good little snit about being left alone.
She never said it, since Narcisa rarely expresses herself in a conventional sense. Narcisa acts. Tonight her act consisted of walking off haughtily as an offended queen until she found a crowded plaza to sit in smoking a joint. When I caught up with her, she studiously ignored me. Finally I got back on the bike and started it up.
“That’s it, Cigano. Just run away like a little bitch,” she snapped loudly for all the world to hear.
“I’m not running away. I just wish you would get on the bike so we could go and talk without an audience…”
“What’s wrong, Cigano? You afraid what people gonna think?”
“Lissen, baby, I’m not gonna continue this discussion with you here. If you wanna come with me, maybe we could go for a little ride and talk.”
“You wanna talk, Cigano, you can talk right here,” she declared loudly, digging in her heels. Heads turned to watch the show. Narcisa loves an audience for her scandalous tantrums. She was just getting started.
Copyright Jonathan Shaw 2008. All Rights Reserved.
NOTIFIÇAO: Os eventos relatados neste site são contos de ficção – registrados na Biblioteca Nacional como ficção com todos os direitos autorais revertidos ao autor, Jonathan Shaw. Os personagens mencionados são interamente ficticios. Certos eventos, personagens, lugares e relatos foram baseados em fatos reais, porém qualquer semelhança a qualquer pessoa viva ou morta se trata de pura coincidência.As vários fotografias apresentadas se encontram com o rosto distorcido para preservar o anonimato das modelos que representam personagens fictícios.