don’t ask

just don’t ask. how much vodka would it take to drink myself into a coma with complete amnesia?

do *not* ask. i’m telling you. and i mean it.

just think something along the lines of “oh my, how terribly freakishly awfully weird can one girl’s problems be?” and leave it at that.

la da dee da daa. never happened nothing happaned. happened? what? where am i? do i know you? oh look. up there. huh. i wonder what i wrote when i meant that. or something. or other. you know? and then you don’t know, you know? yeah. what was your name again? ahh, okay. and a lovely bit of weather we’re having. would you care for some tea? by the way i’m liz, have we met? oh of course. silly me. i forget stuff. when there’s stuff to forget, which in this case there most certainly is not.

fuck.

6 thoughts on “don’t ask

  1. vodka? i’m not sure on that, but i know exactly how much tequila induces comatose amnesia. i am not shy about experimenting with boundaries.

  2. maybe i need to go get some tequila before it’s too late. maybe i could buy the cheap kind and just take a bath in it and … no. that would be silly.

  3. there are a million ways to forget. the trouble is forgetting what it was you wanted to forget, yet still being tormented by it on some instinctive level. so maybe it’s better to remember, and to somehow ritually ‘kill’ the experience with a shiny sword.

    or go rent ‘the wicker man’ staring christopher lee and britt eklund. mmmmmmmmmmmmm…

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