vintage Lesley

so, I'm doing some organizing, and nobody is even having to stand over me and make sure I do it!!! wow! I found a piece of paper with a couple of old bits of my writing, and I thought they would be fun to share...

The Line Between Life And Death Honolulu, April, 1998

Hey, don't think I haven't thought about it. haven't you? Shit, everyone has, I'd guess. Like, last week, i was walking over this bridge to cross the freeway, when suddenly it hit me. my side of the guardrail was life, the other side, death. amazing. i could move myself one foot in space and cease to exist. it's just all so tentative, you know? so i thought, i could do it, but would it matter? do you think we are really as scared of dying as we are of not being missed? i haven't lived here in this town that long, only a couple of years. not really all that close to anybody here yet except my ex, bit i think she would be glad to be rid of me. so, hell, why not do all those delicious things i really want to do? meet people i want to meet, things like that. what will it matter after i am dead? at least i wouldn't have missed out on anything while i was still alive and kicking. would i feel the same way again if i was up on that bridge one more time? shit, why go over if nobody will miss your ass anyhow?better to stay until you make it so people would miss you. i guess that's the point of it all anyway. i can't think of another, can you?

untitled, Honolulu, April 1998

Tirades. i love them. i go on many weekly, daily. i think i make people crazy. give me a topic, i'll give you a harangue. i'm a regular harangoutang! most people who go off like i do end up in rooms made of rubber lucky me, not only do i get to yell about such and such, but i'm still considered responsible even when i'm done. i must be a genius. i guess i need to learn to pick my battles. and to be able to back them up. nothing worse than a tirader who doesn't know what she is talking about.

untitled, Honolulu, April 1998

i bought myself a soda the other day. in a cup with ice. the straw was the unwrapped kind, and the server decided that her hands were clean enough to insert MY straw into MY drink that would pass MY lips and into MY body. the fucking nerve! that's like presuming to wipe someone's ass for them. that's private shit, baby! where is the consideration? where are the straw-condoms? it's the days of HIV/AIDS/TB and hepatitis on strawberries! what is her deal? ok, i'm hyperventilating. sorry. didn't mean to wax all Woody Allen on you. but there is definitely something to be said for the aluminum can.