Santa was a Skinhead

My stomach is full of chocolate, milk, and percocet. I feel like a science experiment got wrong. I got sick at dinner tonight. We were at a fancy steak house, with nosy waiters and polished silver. My head first began to hurt and immediately the nausea kicked in, I could barely form sentences because there was too much noise and too many sights and thinking was too hard between the pain and the overwhelming scene. My mom took me outside and as I sat on the bench, in my cream sweater and dress shoes, wondering what was happening to my body, I began to shiver, but feel better. All I need is cold air and a quiet spot and I'm better. I have no idea what's happening to my body and it's really starting to freak me out.

Right now I'm trying to calm my friend down who thinks her boyfriend might kill himself. I feel bad. I feel powerless in plucking the advice out of the air. Usually, I know exactly what to do or say, I know how to read people. I know how to calm down fights and fix relationships and deal with bosses. But this. This is where I fail. Because no one can know exactly how a, possibly, suicidal person is going to react. In my experience, none of my friends who were suicidal have killed themselves and all we usually ever did was tell them how much we cared about them and that we were there for them. Although we couldn't help them completely, as long as we could get them to calm down enough to talk to us and get down to a more level mental state I felt better about it for the time being.

I feel so bad. I also told M, this new guy I'm seeing, not to smoke opium again. I am a hypocrite. I guess, it's to be expected. I'm doing finals this week and then off for Christmas.

I had things to say, but they're lost in my gut of sugar and oxy. Fuck.

"Santa was a Skinhead" covered by Showcase Showdown