Hello Blog and readers and people that looked up porn and found my blog instead,
It’s been awhile and I wish I could be more consistent. This is going to read like some Judy Blume diary entry so if you were looking for some snarky political queer commentary on some current event or some shit, you might wanna skip past all of this.
My words and my interest still seem to be out on the road together, like during my grief process, they couldn’t handle all the sads so they linked arms and took off into the sunset. Those motherfuckers didn’t leave a note but i guess most of the important stuff doesn’t. Maybe they didn’t have time, sometimes you just don’t have time to do the considerate thing.
I keep talking about my friend that was killed, my Nena, my Christina. Everything I experience is put through the lens of her death, the tragedy, my friendship with her, like it has become THE FILTER. I feel strangely about it like I wish I could put it somewhere else or put it on the back burner and get my mind back. get back the thinking processes that I’ve always relied on. RE: Snarky, smart-ass,nerdy, shy, sin verguenza, tongue-in-cheek, i’m smarter than you and funnier than you but still maybe intimidated by you mentality. all of those things that have fueled my writing and POV since forever…that shit is all gone.
i can’t even write a fucking poem. and i don’t need you all to tell me that it’s gonna be ok and that this is part of the process and all of the shit that i’m already force feeding myself…
i’m trying. like to keep it moving, hold it together, remain relevant, interesting, to keep my commitments to people & entities like Autostraddle and Inga Muscio. They haven’t put any pressure on me whatsoever to do anything but I feel like I owe them my words and my sanity even if I can’t give those things to myself.
I owe my words and my sanity to all of you who have been supportive and understanding and to all those who are experiencing her death the way that I am…without some of you I’d be drunk in a ditch right now, completely hopeless…but i’m not.
i feel like i can’t chill like i used to. i can’t go to the poetry events or the birthday parties or even to your motherfucking house. i just can’t get it together. i live in my bedroom and unless something major pushes me out the door like a writing mission from autostraddle or Thanks-fucking-giving, my ass doesn’t leave my house. I’m trying….i went to acentos two weeks ago. then i went to the movies by myself…then i got sick so i went to the doctor haha. yeah that counts cuz i left my house.
i don’t want to be in any social situation where i find myself pretending to be happy or invested or interested. i also appreciate when people ask me if i’m ok but when it’s in public at like a thing or a party, i just want to crawl into myself and wish you didn’t know that about me. (even though I’m SUPER OPEN about it and have no problem blogging n blasting my feelings every where…sometimes i forget that people actually read my shit.) when you ask me about her and my grief in public, i want to melt into the floor or into the heavens or something…so i’ve just been avoiding all of that and so many of you.
it’s like this tragedy lives on my skin and i can’t pull it any deeper into my body. i can’t pull it into my soul or my blood or somewhere i/ya’ll can’t see.
and who wants to be the bummer? who wants to be the emotional one at a birthday party at some club in the city? not me…
that’s why you see my wife out without me cuz i’m sending her out the door so she doesn’t go crazy dealing with my emotional ass. haha. Liz and my mom have been so integral in my sanity and in me keeping my self in line and not being a drunk f*cked up mess for the last three and a half months…
and erica rico, marcela mejia, marta coronado, kristen treadwell, cathy la bomba, my dad, Reno! 911, netflix, her facebook page, her family, tv & film production gigs (gun hill), alicia anabel, laura sicari, my brother, my family, the weekend at my cousin gloria’s house, weed, beer, my bed………………have helped keep me from losing my ever loving mind.
i’m here. i’m alive. and to some of you, my more hood people, who are like “nigga, niggas die, shit happens, fucking keep it moving. my baby’s father is dead, my cousin bookie got shot, my mom’s in jail. man up, nigga” I feel you! this isn’t my first time experiencing death. i would love to man up but i don’t even really know what that means. or how i could do it successfully with these large breasts of mine….
and i have a book to finish editing and send of to an interested publisher and I just can’t even fucking bring myself to look at it. i see it as a year i spent not being 100% invested in Nena’s life, a year I spent in my own world not being the best friend to her that I should have been, not responding to EVERY text or call…just writing. and she supported it and loved what i was doing but still i feel so guilty, so insanely guilty that i spent that time away from being 100% invested in our friendship, in all my friendships, i guess. my guilt is so strong that I look at the black binder with my novel in it and i just want to drink or burn it. burn it as an offering to her, to ask for her forgiveness…like as if that was something i really needed. if i know logically that she was all for it, then why does the emotional side of me remain so wracked with guilt and sadness?
so i’m deadlocked and haven’t edited or written anything new besides a few blogs n letters to her n maybe a random movie review or something…
i’ve lost my voice, my words and my interest. if you see them skipping along some beach somewhere getting drunk off of margaritas, could you please send them back to me?