Spun (excerpt)

NOTE:  I'm bummed the formatting and fonts don't transfer.  If you're interested in a fully formatted version that will make a little more sense, email me!



This is about the first 25 pgs. of my newest novel, Spun. 



Shelley Stoehr

www.shelleystoehr.com

FB:  Shelley Stoehr

Myspace:  www.myspace.com/crossesshelley

[e-mail]





1



         I          KEEP          telling myself

                             I’m normal, we’re normal

                             and this is a beginning

         Not          THE          



                   MEMORY



KEEP                    telling yourself

                   this is normal,

                   you don’t have to be perfect or great



2

         My mother nudged me hard in my side, a pointy elbow that stabbed me and drew me back from my notebook, where I was trying to write a poem about this basement full of in-your-face slogans, stuff like “Keep the Memory Green!”, “You Are Not Alone!”, and “How Important is It?”

         Trouble was, I couldn’t get anything to go with “memory”, except “The MEMORY of my dead father”, but that wasn’t really on my mind at the moment, so it seemed false.  And I was thoroughly stumped for anything to go with “GREEN.” 

         I had another idea:

         Is it normal

         to be spun out of your mind

         have to recover from

         Your Self



         And then my mother nudged me again!  Holy crap, I mean, couldn’t she see I was busy?  Maybe I should’ve stayed in the car, but going in had seemed right at the time.  And it was hot outside -- in Southern California, Septembers were the worst. 

         Still, just because I’d come in with my mother didn’t mean I wanted to become involved, besides, I had the poem worked out:

         is it normal                              to be spun out of your mind,

                                                 to have to recover from

                                                 your Self?

         to be here                    and I mean here,

                                       this room, and also

                                       here with my mother, and also

         like this,                              I mean here, this life

                                                 place time me her

                                                 I don’t like it --

                                       being here,

                                       to recover me

                                       when I just want to Be

         SPUN



         I was going to go on with the poem, you know get all into how I was SPUN at the same time as I was SPINNING my story, get it?  Only I was already bored stupid, and it didn’t matter anyway, because my mother just then elbowed me again, and grabbed my knee and squeezed hard. 

         I gave my mother a “keep your hands to yourself and leave me alone” look that I thought hid my anxiety really well, and peeked around at the eclectic mix of people meeting in the cramped church basement room, and scrawled my impressions into my notebook under the poem:

man with craggy face, twisted lip, won’t shut up

woman:  expensive suit, heavy gold, probably hiding out from the O.C.          

tattooed man with long curls of gray hair

clique of young women, very So. Cal.:  bleached hair, thin, no-nonsense bodies

Horse-faced woman, farm-fed fat



         All around, and around again I looked, then back at my mother, dabbing her eyes with a tissue as white and translucent as her skin.  I was completely uncomfortable, and it made me want to laugh or jump up and down in frustration or cry or yell, or somehow announce myself 

Me:  dyed-black hair, streaked with white bleached blond, unfortunate tube of          belly



         I should’ve been thinner.  But I binged on all kinds of crap like crumb doughnuts, Oreo cookies, hot wings, Ritz crackers with cheese spread, lemon popsicles, whatever.  Basically if my mother brought it home, and I was out of dope, I ate it.  She was as impulsive as me, and she hardly ever brought home a bag of groceries like you saw on TV that showed off a leafy head of lettuce and a baguette. 



3

         “Write it down, write it down,” that’s what Mrs. Keating, who was my English teacher, and also in charge of the literary magazine, had said.  She thought I had problems, she thought writing was the answer for me.  Sometimes I believed she was right, but just as often I trusted that my best friend Paige was right, and what I really needed was to

         sniff snort suck it up

         another line, better yet smoke

         a  hit of

         crystal meth.



         “I’ll be back,” I said to my mother suddenly.

         She looked at me wide-eyed, and I thought she was going to grab hold of me and never let go, which would’ve been very, very bad, because I had to go, get out of there, just go, go fast.

         Taking my notebook with me, holding it against my chest the way I did when I was nervous and it seemed like it was the only thing I could hold on to, I slipped past the alcoholics chatting --

         “Hey Kath, how’re the twins?”

         “Did you get the job?”

         “Doing good, can’t complain.”

         -- down the hall, to the bathroom.  Into a stall.  Locked the door, stuffed my hand in my pocket and pulled out the baggie with the skull and crossbones on it, put my notebook on the floor, wiped the back of the toilet dry, and with shaking hands, dumped out a crystal.  I crushed it and smoothed it into a line with my library card, and was rolling up a dollar when the outer door to the basement slammed open.

         OhGod OhGod!  I snorted the line of meth fast and stuffed everything back in my pocket, but not before my heart jumped up into my throat.

         I heard peeing next to me, and then a voice said, “You okay in there?”

         “Um, yeah, fine!”  I said, grabbing my notebook and starting to hurry out, then remembering to flush.  When I got back to the meeting room, I scurried into my seat.  Everyone seemed to be looking at me.  My heart wouldn’t stop fluttering, from fear of getting caught, from the rush, from stupidness, from the crystal.

         “You okay?” my mother asked.  She looked hopeful.  She needed me.

         “I’m great,” I said, wishing the meth would kick in and make me feel great, hoping it wouldn’t just give me anxiety like it sometimes did.  The basement room was crowded now, and everyone seemed to be checking me and my mother out.  I puffed up my meager chest.

         I was cool.  I was great.  Only --

         I opened my notebook, and made myself breathe, looked around the room again to see if I could spot the woman who’d been in the bathroom with me, but I couldn’t.

What the F am I doing with my life?



4

         My mother’s first AA meeting was in a room with grayed linoleum and painted cinderblocks and no AC, but the cool musty odor of underground. 

         She nudged me, giving me a look, a sad and pathetic look, as if to say, “Pay attention, please, for me!”  But I couldn’t stop writing.  The words were flung out of me onto pages in my notebook as they always were -- thoughts, poems, images, things that made me angry, things that made me sad, things that might inspire me one day when I became a writer

I am a writer.

No, rgt. now I’m high as the fucking kite they talk about, but if I don’t keep writing I’m going to freak out



         I wanted to cry to my mother, tell her, “Stop Momma, keep your elbows and your looks to yourself, I can’t take it, you have to stop bugging me.”

         But I couldn’t say that out loud.

         I focused on my mother, because this meeting was about her, and I wanted to support her.  She smiled.  I smiled back and curled my feet around each other.  The meeting started.

Everyone was so pumped up, I wished I were an addict or alcoholic, just, you know, to feel the love come my way. 



5

         I sniffled, not from tears, but because my nose stung.  It felt raw, seared, stripped.  My mother eyed me sideways, but I didn’t think she suspected anything.          

         I was so methed-out of inhibitions, I wasn’t worried about embarrassing myself, even though

Jesus Christ, I’m always freaking out about something

one time Paige said I was going to hell for my religious cursing, like OhmiGod! & Holy shit! etc., but before I freaked out about that, she said, “Kidding!” & I was all “Thank fucking God!” and we cracked up,  P. & I always laugh so hard together. 



         Sorry Mom, I’m back, I thought, crossing one arm over my notebook, while raising my other hand, crazy or inhibition free or trying to please my mother, I didn’t know, but “Hi I’m Jenna,” I said, “and I’m here with my mother, who --”

         I would’ve kept talking, because my mouth wanted to go, to catch up with the spin in my head, but my mother nudged me again.  So I pulled her hand into the air.

         “Um, I’m Amy, and I’m an alcoholic,” she said.

         Like they couldn’t tell by her shaking like a leaf about to fall off a tree and die in a dry crinkle on the ground. 

         Oh yeah, that’s good.  Write it down --

         She fell from high aspirations

         into a twisted crumble

         that the wind blew away from me.

         

This sucks.           



         Without any regard for my feelings, my mother secretly shoved me again, this time leaning into me with her shoulder, and giving me a look so acidic, I had to stop tapping my pen.  And my feet.  And quit sucking my teeth, stop my eyes from blinking a mile a minute, and make my stomach stop growling.  I looked around, and people were staring.  I stared back, majorly upset, not even trying not to scowl.  My mother didn’t want me to talk at her meeting, didn’t want me to write, never wanted me to do anything, and why was everyone looking at me funny?  Did they know?   

         Holycrap, people!

         My face flushed hot, and my fist clenched around my pen.  I felt weird and itchy in my own skin, but I’m proud to say, I didn’t flip out.  I chewed on my lower lip and tried to refocus. 

Should’ve done a bigger line.  Might’ve kept the edge off. 

But how much less cool could I be already, doing meth in the bathroom of a church down the hall from my mother’s AA mting.?

         Faded red and black calligraphy, a slogan hanging crooked on the wall:

         “Easy Does It”



6

         My mother was talking.  Shit, Jenna, pay attention!  “I was a good mother,” she said.  “After my daughter’s father died, I took her everywhere.  I even took her to work, hiding her in my cubicle at the telephone company.  She used to draw picture books of me crying and then an angel taking me away.  Those books were always sad.  We were always sad.”

I remember when she worked at Neiman Marcus, and  hid me in the dressing rm.  Brought me expensive clothes to pretend in.

Last year, when Paige started taking me thrift-shopping, I looked for the familiar brand names.  P.  said “Pff” & waved her hand at me, said she hated brands because it was other people trying to force their values on her.

         P:  It’s all about consumerism.  Kid workers in China.

         Me:  Okay.

I lied, cuz actually, I wish someone’d impose some values on me!  Tonight my mother has on a pair of DKNY jeans I got her for only four dollars.



My mother is an alcoholic.



7

         I looked up, and she was on to talking about Frank, her husband, and my stepfather the asshole.  She looked like she might fall down for real, so I touched her leg to show I was right there with her. 

         “Frank took me home from a bar one night, and then a couple weeks later, came and got Jenna and I, and loaded us into his pickup truck.  I remember it smelled like grease and sweat, stale beer and cigarettes, and --”

Frank =  dickweed.  Heavy hand and heavier threats

Mom = skinnier every day.  Easily broken.



         “Live and Let Live” on the wall.

Nice idea.



8

         “Thanks, Amy,” said everyone, “Keep coming!”          

         Yeah, great solution -- this morning, I saw a cigarette burn on the inside of her arm, a sunken, blackened hole against the pale white sag of her skin.  But she said not to worry, we’d get through it.

         It was no wonder I liked to be at Paige’s house getting high more than, Duh, I liked being at home with my “own mother” -- “You don’t even care about your own mother,” she said once. 

         My throat tightened.  I wanted to cry more than ever, but I didn’t, I just looked down and tugged on the hem of the old tee-shirt I was wearing.  I’d gotten it from a box of my mother’s things that I’d rescued from the rubbish at the curb.

         “Amy’s Things”: 

         picture of my father,

         pic.’s of the 3 of us,

         his 1st book of poems,

         her silver wedding ring,

         a porcelain unicorn,

         remains of shot glass collection -- “Hollywood!”, “Viva Las Vegas!”, “Welcome to the Sunshine State”,

         “Meat is Murder” tee shirt I’m wearing

                   

Took box of her stuff cuz I wanted to be like she used to be; live the good times.  Know my father, really know him, & not just the sullen burnt-out poet who bought me pink ribbons & dresses on the internet.  As if that were love.



9

         Other people were talking, telling their stories.  I wasn’t listening.

         I didn’t have to listen.  I hardly ever drank alcohol, not just because any time I’d ever stolen booze from my mother she’d noticed, but because Paige taught me never to mix alcohol with speed or I’d get dehydrated

I am so hot & gross.  Wishing I brought a water bottle with me which is like Paige’s and my trademark, to always have a bottle of water in one hand.  We’re vegetarians too, like my m. used to be, only we don’t eat vegetables.  We don’t eat anything becuz you don’t eat when you’re doing meth, but we do drink lots of Odwalla Superfood:  green like veggies -- everyone knows it’s mandatory nutrition for a tweaker. 



         A Tweaker.  I guessed that’s what maybe I was, but only in the very back of my mind did I ever think I wanted help, and only when I felt really shitty.  Mostly, like if anyone asked, I’d tell them I was, for one, having a good time, and for another thing, trying to take care of my mother and my best friend, stay safe in the midst of all the violence and evil around me, and get good grades, plus write poetry and, you know, become someone. 



10

         OhmiGod, my head was crawling with thoughts.  My eyes skittered  around the room, still looking for the woman from the bathroom, not knowing what to look for except maybe she’d be looking at me, suspicious and all.

         I smiled a little manically at my mother, my left eye twitching.  She reached for my hand and held it.  I hoped she wouldn’t notice the sweat on my palms, or the ripples of shivers that were passing through my insides, making me queasy and reminding me that if I didn’t do another bump I was going to start coming down.  That was one thing I didn’t like, being up and then Boom!  Crash down. 

         Did my mother notice my smile was stretched a little tight?  Did she care?  Was I just being paranoid?  I looked at the door.  I swept my eyes back, over everyone’s heads, to the clock.  I told myself, I can handle another fifteen minutes.

         Lowering my head, I started to zone out.  Actually it was more like disconnecting, and I didn’t even mean to do it, it just happened.  My mind soared right out of me, which is why it was probably a while or it could’ve been, but anyway it seemed like all of a sudden, my mother dropped my hand and started toward the front of the room.

         OhmiGod, she was getting a 24-hour coin!  She wasn’t even twenty-four hours sober yet!  But my mother always believed in warping time to her needs, like for example, when we lived alone and she used to postdate the rent checks. 

         I shrank backwards into my metal chair, trying to disappear, which was pretty impossible because I wasn’t exactly tiny like my mother or Paige.  Damn those Oreo cookies. 

         I managed to hide my eyes, dilated pupils and all, by staring down at the frayed hems of my boys’ jeans, and the smudged front ends of my Converse.  My hair hung over my eyes in shaggy chunks.

         So what if I used dope a little?  I wasn’t asking for a damn coin, no thank you very much.  Although I would say that one day at a time I liked when I could keep a little buzz going, and since I was only sixteen, what was so bad about that?



11

         My mother sat down and smiled, no, beamed.  “I love you Jenna,” she said, tears in her voice.

         Oh damn, Mom.  Why did she always get me like that? 

         I freakin love you too, Mom.

         I swear I will never do drugs again. 

Mom & I will start a new, clean and sober life.  Paige will leave Kevin, move in with us, be straight too & I will fall in love, become a writer, be happy. 



None of us will eat meat & everything will change & be better this time.



         “Let go or be dragged,” someone says.

         Ain’t that the truth.



12

Dear Momma,

         I don’t know how to tell you this, but



Dear Mom,

         I know I should’ve told you this before, because you always said I could come to you with anything



Mom --

         First let me say, I’m sorry. 



Dear Mommy 



Dear Momma,

         For the past year, I’ve been using crystal meth.  I know I should’ve told you this before, because you always said to come to you with anything.  But you also always told me never to be like you, and never to drink, and I take that to mean never do drugs either.  I’m really, really sorry.

         Boy, this is hard.  That’s why I’m writing you this in a letter.  I want you to know that I didn’t ever mean to hurt you.  Just like I know you never meant to hurt me by drinking. 

         I’m gonna stop, so you don’t have to worry.

         I just want us to be a family again.  You and me, together forever.

                                                                               Love always,

                                                                               Jenna



13

         “Hey Mom, can I read you something?”  I said, keeping my eyes on my notebook while my mother rummaged through her purse.  When she didn’t answer, I just sat there at first, watching as she pulled out her cigarettes and tossed them on the seat.  She kept digging in her purse, yanking shit out and getting more and more frantic, pawing through the bulging tote, and I should’ve probably let her be, but I said again, “Mom, I wrote you a letter.  It’s pretty important.”

         Finally, she found her keys, and without putting anything back in her bag, she started the car.  “Is that what you were doing in there, is that what was so important?” she said, mouth around a cigarette.  Her hands were shaking, and the air conditioner kept blowing out the lighter flame.  I felt tears welling up and a lump in my throat as I lit the cigarette for her.



14 

         “I’m sorry,” she said after driving a while in silence, me crying and her smoking furiously. 

         She wasn’t sorry about the letter though, but about what she was about to do.  I should’ve known.  Tearing the letter out of my notebook, I crumpled it in my fist as we pulled into a too-familiar parking lot. 

         “That was hard, that meeting.  Talking about, well, you know what a fuck-up I am,” she said.  “I feel like it’s too much.  I swear though, it’s going to get better.  I’m going to get better.  I love you Jenna, I really do, no matter what happens.”  Her skirt clung to her legs, and I could see them shivering.  I could feel her goose bumps and nausea and anxiety as though it were my own, maybe because it was my own.

         “Please don’t,” I said, letting my eyes close for a moment.  I knew, I knew that it was not going to be okay, like she’d promised, like I’d hoped.

         “Mom!  Stop!  Think!”  I said, using another stupid slogan from the meeting in a last, desperate effort to keep her sober.

         Her tears flowed faster for a long moment.  But just as quickly, she stopped crying and wiped away a dribble of snot with her sleeve.  “Just one little Nip,” she said.  “I swear.”

         I didn’t answer.  I wanted to throw the letter I wrote in her face, but instead, I held onto it more tightly than ever.  I held on to my notebook too, for dear life, and then I thought about getting wasted.

         Brushing the back of her hand against my cheek, she said, “I mean it this time.  I’m sorry Jenna!  I’m just so fucking overwhelmed, and I can’t take it right now!  I can’t!  It’s too much.  I just really need to calm down a little.  I swear, just one Nip.  Look at me, I’m shaking!  I feel like I’m going to die.  Don’t you get it Jenna?”

         She sounded just like me, or maybe I sounded like her, whatever.  But I was shaking too. 

      I got it.

         “Just one Nip, I swear.”

         I turned away, staring down at the open, blank page in my notebook, while she got out of the car and went into the liquor store.  Picking up a pen off the seat, I remembered giving it to her for her birthday.  It was sky blue, and said “Goddess” on it.

         Jenna is:  angry, scared, lonely, lost, sensitive, determined, controlling?, perfectionist (but not, on meth), judgmental (not maliciously), distrustful, a follower (or a sponge?) (trying to fit in)



         I started to calm down.  As much as I could anyway. 

         It helped to search for myself in words, separate myself from my mother.  She was messing me up.

         Or maybe I didn’t need her help for that.



15

         Opening the window, I threw out the ball of crushed letter, stupid letter that my mother had forgotten about before she’d even read it.  Running my fingers through the ends of my hair, I looked at myself in the rearview mirror.  I was pasty white, but with a crystal meth flush high in my cheeks.  My forehead was sprinkled with chemical pimples, my hair was black with bleached-out, white streaks and looked downright scary, in spite of Paige’s promise when she was coloring it that it would look awesome, and me believing her.  My eyes were wide, deep brown, muddy holes.

         My lips were held together hard so I wouldn’t scream, but then I let go and did scream!  I smashed my fist against the seat, and I would’ve done a line right then, but I didn’t want my mother to come out of the liquor store, see me and use me as her excuse, even if she were mine.

         Pushing open my door, I took off in my Converse, running, running, running, until I was all the way over at the high school.  Under the bleachers, I did a rough-cut line that burned the crap out of my sinuses because I didn’t crush the crystal properly.  I didn’t care.  I was just glad for the bitter taste in the back of my throat and the new spin on things my head started to take as I began to feel relief, finally, and to fly.  With trembling fingers, I pulled my cell out of my pocket and called Paige.

         “Good meeting?”  she said.  I heard her exhale, and saw the cloud of white, chemical-smelling smoke in my mind.

         “Bite me,”  I said, smiling a horrible, toothy smile that I couldn’t help.  “Just come and get me, bitch.”

         “Okay bitch.  Where are you?”

         “Nowhere, bitch.  Everywhere.”  I laughed, but it wasn’t funny, and my laughter sounded bitter, a hurt that came from deep inside me in spite of everything I’d done to cover it up.  “I’m at the high school.  Meet you by the street,” I said quickly.

         “Mommy let you out to play?”

         “I ran away.”

         “I’ll be there pronto.”

         “Bring a bowl,” I said, meaning a full pipe.  I was going to get so high they were going to have to peel me off the ceiling in a couple days.

         Even so, tough as I was, I couldn’t help but feel sorry for my mother.  I wanted to call her and tell her I was okay, but I was afraid I’d end up back home taking care of her again the whole night.  So instead, I closed my eyes and watched my thoughts lighting up my brain, yearning for the pipe and higher higher higher amperage.

         While I waited for Paige, I wrote a poem that was better than the letter I’d tossed, but wouldn’t get any closer to my mother’s eyes, because I swore then and there that I would never offer to share what I wrote with her again:



Dear Mom



I love you, you evil                                        bitchy

drunk.  Even when I am                    high

And I am flung up                                                  on

a ceiling of stars, like                                crystal

tears -- even when it’s only                      meth,

my writing, Paige and                    me,

I’m thinking of                              you.

& I’m mad as                                        fuck

but I don’t hate                                        you.

                                       Love,

                                       Me



16

         I closed my notebook, still holding on to it, but barely.  Barely holding on.

         I am not my mother’s mother!

         So many feelings were locked up in the cage of my love for my mother.  I wished they’d all go away.  Meth helped.  Writing helped.  But inside me, curling like smoke around my heart, digging deeper and throwing rocks around in my stomach, it was all there.  Thankfully, I heard the beep beep of Paige’s old VW Bug.  Forgetting about my mother -- purposely leaving her behind -- I ran to the car and climbed in.



17

         Sometimes I freaked out when I smoked speed, but as Paige passed me her blue swirled, glass pipe, I didn’t care if my heart exploded.  I would have done anything to get away from the shitty world of my real life.  I had to get a hold of my emotions!  I had to get away for a while!  I needed to be happy -- I deserved to get high!

         What someone’d said at the meeting about surrender -- why would I ever do that?  Screw surrender!  I liked control. 

         Holy Shit, I thought, maybe my “Higher Power” that they talk about in AA, maybe mine is crystal meth...

         I felt really profound.

         “Aaah,” I said as I passed the pipe.



18

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Jbird’s Word World

date:  9/7/08  2:36am

title:  “High there” (get it?)



i’m writing this @ Paintergirl’s house.  i’d like to say we’re having fun, but i for one am not, no offense to Paintergirl

she says none taken. she’s looking over my shoulder, and it makes me laugh.  Great now k. (I should give him a screen name, how about Ahole?)  so, Ahole says to Pg, yo bitch -- b/c he always has to talk in ghetto speak even tho he’s like 35 or something and white and stupid

oh great, now he’s grabbing her just b/c she was paying like one iota of attention to me, and he’s like yo bitch I’m talkin to you



         “Kevin, I swear to you, you’re gonna let go of my arm,” Paige said.

         He pulled her onto his lap, and then he let go, sure, but it was more like, what do they say?  He was following the letter of the law, not the spirit of the law.  I didn’t say a word, although there was plenty I could’ve said, believe you me.  Turning back to Paige’s laptop, I was thankful for the other world that I could disappear into -- the world where my head spilled onto the page, or the screen, as it were, and not onto the rug.  I slurped some water, a big gulp that ran down my trembling chin.



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Surprised i can still type.  I haven’t slept since friday, no, thrusday nite.  Paintergirl is offering me the pipe.  Don’t want it, but do  at the same time, which you only get if you’re me and you’re crazy, and you wish you could just write you know, really write and not just this  anyw  oh s**t, not now



         Fuck if I knew what Paige did, but I heard as Kevin slapped her, and she slapped him back.  He pushed her so she fell off the mattress, and she dropped the pipe, and even though we had a whole plate of the stuff right there on top of the crate that served as a night stand -- he threw himself on top of her, and reached back...

         I grabbed his arm.

         He swung toward me.

         Paige screamed and was about to bite him.

         He rolled free.  His eyes were red, and spit formed in the corners of his mouth.  Oh God oh God oh God!  My heart was already beating fast from the dope, and when Kevin looked at me like that, I felt it crashing into my ribs, totally gone wild.  I was going to have a heart attack, if Kevin didn’t kill me.

         But then, thank God, oh God, thank you God, he said, “Fuck you anyway, Paige.  Play with your little girlfriend, I don’t need you,” pulled on his pants, and stormed out.



this has not been making sense.  sorry, i gotta go, Paintergirl is crying.  stupid dick boyfriend Ahole.  soometimes i’m glad i don’t have one. 



         “You shouldn’t write awful things like that, especially things that you don’t mean, either,” Paige said.  I didn’t answer, I just reached around her and held her.  She sobbed onto my shoulder, and I clicked “Post blog”, and then wrapped my other arm around her.



Posted by:  Jbird          9/7/08  2:45am          0 Comments



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Labels:  boyfriends, violence, friendship, meth, crystal, crystal meth



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Jbird’s Word World

date:  9/7/08  3:04am

title:  “First Time”



         Ahole came back.  now they’re  practically doing it on the mattress behind me, and i’m trying to ignore them and Paintergirl’s at least respectful and says A**hole, j.’s right there!  and he’s all, what is she sdoing here anyway?  i’m like whatever.  not like i can go home.

         Sad Fact# 3 million and 10:  i don’t have anything better to do, or anyplace else to be.  it’s like three am, and I’m sooo spun, and all I can think of is how tired i am, or else i think about my mother (which is Sad Fact # 3 million and 9, Btw), and so here i am in the blogosphere again.  i know ur all windering how i got started as a meth head, when i’m such a good girl, giood grades, potential and s**t.  well, you don’t know me so well.