when i think about you i cut myself

thursday night in the bathroom at the bar (don't worry, it's not another tale of dumb bitches in the bathroom) i got slammed in the head with the door. the girl who was opening it was extremely apologetic, and all i could do was laugh, because it was completely my fault. i was in a trance...wait, hold on...i just saw a young couple walking down the street with matching outfits-the girl in a green tee w/ a brown skirt, and her man (whose hand she was holding) in a green tee and brown shorts...both in flip flops...and THE SAME EXACT SHADES OF GREEN AND BROWN-what the fuck is that about? do they go shopping together and limit their wardrobes to items that are identical? do they go to old navy, split up then meet in the middle with piles of clothing for them to sift through until they find a match? does the guy not have the balls to say, "look bitch, we aren't 3 year old twins, we are adults who happen to fuck each other and the fact that you make me walk down the street holding your fucking hand signifies this gay ass union that we have so how about letting me wear whatever the fuck i want". guess not. god that is so fucking queer.

wow. sorry...back to the trance i was in that resulted in me getting my face slammed by the bathroom door. i noticed this sign that was posted that said "cut-a-thon". then i noticed it was a benefit for missing and exploited children. my drunken mind went immediately into the world of self-mutilation and i was like, huh? are people going to gather and cut themselves to experience pain and relate to this missing and exploited children? are they going to save the blood and then use it as paint on the world's biggest canvas to say "bring them home"?

so, i was confused. it was actually a hair-cut-a-thon. but still, that's random, and i think they should have spelled it out. the next day at work, i came across this article about self-mutilation. i thought some of the things that the self-muties said were fucked up. but so is cutting yourself so go figure. and immediately i am reminded of frankie.

back in the days when i had cable (so 2004), there was real world san diego. i haven't watched the real world since pedro cried endlessly about being AIDS ridden and misunderstood, while puck picked his scabs and got on yet another soapbox about something that made absolutely no sense...so that was 1994 (i was 14, please forgive me). but god knows that if you have your television tuned to mtv you will catch 72 commercials for the upcoming real world episode.

there was one commercial (or preview i guess) that will forever stick out in my head...and it's that of the asian roommate having a private moment with the camera and saying, "frankie...is a cutter". she says it as though she is surprised, fearful, shocked, confused, concerned, embarrassed, all kinds of things rolled into one. it's almost like she was going to say it, then didn't want to say, then finally found the courage to say it, but then said it in a snobby and scared way, thinking that maybe she was going to be booed or that someone from out in tv land was going to throw tomatoes at her pretty little squished up face. it was hilarious. frankie...is a cutter??!.;?!

my ex and i would look at each other with the dead straight face and say those words at the worst times, like...at the desk of the ER when i about to have my kidney removed. then jarrett took over and he and i continued to wear out the phrase. i guess the only reason this was funny to us is because they seriously played that fucking commercial 80,000 times. it was ringing through our fucking heads.anyways, i just came across this article about whack job cutters which made me think of frankie...the cutttteeerrrrrrrrrrr. she is actually dead now, but that won't keep me from referencing her and her twisted little practice of slicing open her thighs. i mean, she's probably happy to be dead...i would be if i had to cut myself to feel alive.

footnote: i was telling jarrett about this friday at lunch because it's been so long since we said, "frankie...is a cutter", and he reminded me of the sign i saw the night before in the bathroom...which i had already forgotten about...because i was fucking shitfaced. but don't worry, the topic at hand is here for no other reason than because of these external triggers...i am not thinking about using the razor blade for anything other than cutting lines.