Like a Praying Mantis, her thin, sinewy arms, lean across a filthy countertop, searching for eyelash glue. She can never be seen without her eyelashes. She can never be seen, period. Her skin is like a drawer liner with eggshell paper and a stale floral scent. It looks dusty. Each pore is raised, ever so slightly, on the way to becoming a goose bump, but being shy about it. She moves, constantly. Fiddling, and rearranging things, trying to pretend she’s not wholly taken over by the onslaught of drugs. 

 

Her name, is Joey. 

 

Joey is sleeping with the boss, and it’s amazing what a blow job and flexibility will afford you in a run-down dump off a dirt road. This place has a constant stench of desperation that burns my nostrils, and it breeds hate so deep within me, that I feel like my skin will tear open. Depravity at high doses takes a toll on your insides.

 

I’m on the toilet, in a filthy bathroom. The one and only bathroom in this “establishment” And besides the fact that every now and then, someone shits in the sink. It’s the only place I find peace here, the only place I can be alone. I sit and write for a moment, in between songs, and bleed, on paper.

 

I am filled with hatred today. And I don’t know why. Too many days in a row being here, being there, being everywhere except still, dressed, and out of character. 

 

At the moment, I hate Joey. She’s the focus of my sour belly, the target of my frustrations, and the face I want to punch, every time she moves near me. 

 

I hate that she wears little denim shorts that were ugly in the eighties. I hate her ankle socks, her fake ponytail, and her eyelashes. I hate that she can actually lay down and let that fat fuck put his dick in her. And I hate that she gets away with everything, and constantly complains about it. I hate the way she smells, the way she sounds, and the way she fiddles. Today, I hate everything about Joey.

 

Joey, like all of us, is a carnival act. Her act, specifically, is that of a rubber doll. Her body can twist and split into acrobatic positions.  She’s flexible in extraordinary ways, in jaw dropping ways. Men are captivated, thinking about all the inhuman positions they could fuck her in. Joey, probably more than any other girl in here, is seen as a toy. She is a walking fuck doll. It also doesn’t help that she is so loaded half the time that she can’t hold a conversation. And the other half of the time she is re applying makeup, hiding, and doing drugs. 

 

Joeys cheeks are falling away. Her skin sagging and not reflective of her few years. A girl in her early 20’s with the face of an old woman. She is worn thin, worn out, and worn through.

 

Today, I don’t want to understand, I don’t want to find a way to love, or listen. I don’t want to care about Joey. Today, I want to put my fist through a wall, and return my life.

 

I want a rewind button, or better still, a pause button. I need to breathe and figure a way out of all this.  Figure out a way to a life without Joeys.

 

I say all this knowing…

 

Joey and I are the same. Just at different stages, in different places. But we are, at our core, the same. Joey is not her name, and Jaime is not mine. Neither of us are who we say we are. Or, who we dress up to be. 

 

She does drugs, I don’t, anymore. She wears jean shorts, I don’t. Perhaps that’s why I’m so angry at her. Because I want to be loaded, and I want to be a person who’s comfortable in Jean shorts. Perhaps. I haven’t ruled out drugs, but jean shorts are never going to be my thing.

 

I fight with myself about taking notice of Joey’s pain. Not wanting to participate in the understanding of her being so broken. And not wanting to give her space. I fight with Joey as a reflection of myself, and the disgust at my own failures, seen through her. She, is me. And I, am her. Each of us only one decision away from being the other. 

 

All we do here is lie, and pretend. And so many girls get lost in the lie, forgetting about a time that was supposed to come after this. And forgetting about the girl underneath the eyelashes. Underneath the glue, and the paint, and the fake name. 

 

Joey is stuck, just like me, stuck. And to hate Joey, is to hate myself. I know this but it won’t change my needing to have someone to blame. Today, I need to be angry, to feel better. And Joey is an injured calf. 

 

A knock at the door, guess who…

JOEY

  • Grey Instagram Icon