Chapter 7

<p>There was a point in my life where I learned we all grow backwards. From age eighteen, we stop flourishing. We go from being bright children to angsty teens into lost young adults. Any perspective you gain in your teenage years turns out to be egocentric moralistic reflection. <br/> Which kills you.<br/> So by the time you're old enough to know you were in over your head the entire time, the reality check stuns you. You're not smart. You're nothing but a big, fat assuming snail in a situation where everyone else is a cheetah. Congratulations, loser.<br/> It is now three months after senior year has let out. Sarah has been quiet amongst our circle, parting ways with her high school friends so soon. I understand why. We weren't anything spectacular. Just bitchy girls.<br/> Some things have changed. I've found a job as a waitress at a local strip club. Something about dressing the way I want and strangers not being obligated to touch me for it empowers my will to make money off their tips. I do wear low cut tops with high heels, flared out bottoms and my makeup on fleek. I'm a show pony without a pole. A slut without her clothes off.<br/> Maive, my coworker continues to ask me to cover her shifts throughout the week. We've gone out drinking together. But if she knows anything about my breed of human, or who I am beneath my normalcy, she will avoid me. I still smoke crystal meth. I have been this past summer. To get over Sarah, I mean.<br/> My problems disappear as soon as the stimulant hits me. I love how I perceive myself as most beautiful, know exactly what to say and manifest to myself in the mirror, as I isolate happily. My best friend is a drug many say to avoid. Many say to avoid an augment that fixes me.<br/> I haven't made a plan of contacting Sarah. As much as I have a longing to have her back in my life. She is worthy of better than a junkie. I've done a lot of reflecting. It's not the right time.<br/> Tomorrow, I will be scheduling a trip to Paris on my own. There are other things to look forward to than pushing yourself back into someone's peripheral after rudely revealing you were a total lesbian and pined for them daily. <br/> As I walk through the mall on my day off, I look for my drug dealer, Carl. He promised to meet me outside the movie theatre. I'm supposed to sleep with him in his car for seven grams, my unused skills of many years coming back out. <br/> <br/> I throw my neck repeatedly. He takes a long time to finish, just to degrade me, just to make my jaw hurt. He knows I'm not interested in men. He knows how much I fiend for a drug to ignore my broken heart longer. Carl is a misogynist for what he does to me. Spitting on my face and slapping it, pulling my hair and calling me a filthy fucking whore, he plunges into the depth of my fervent self hatred. I lost Sarah Lovett. <br/><br/> <br/> <br/> </p>