Notes to Cindy: The Archives

With 2 days to go, I am still looking for a pump for the air mattress and with the dryer belt burnt out, and no newspaper for the dishes, we’re at standstill with packing. Last night, Tamara, whom I’m calling Anya, now, and I got into a fight. I was convinced she was going to leave me, so I had planned to jump off of a bridge, but thought better of it and ran to my grandparents. After discovering that Anya was not at home, my grandfather and I set out to look for her. Upon finding her, my grandparents dropped me off and we sat on the curb talking for one and a half hours. By the time we got home, all was fine, but it scared me. I have honestly never been this in love before. Actually, I don’t think I have ever truly been in love until now. I thought that I was, but now that I look back and see it was all infatuation, nothing more than the selfish desire to be wanted. I understand now what it means for love to be selfless. I’m still frightened, however, of the consequences that I’ve brought upon us, for they do not just affect me any longer. They affect her as well. I never meant for it to be like this, but I have no choice but to accept the cards I’ve been dealt and play them to the best of my advantage. We’re out of cigarettes now. I know it’s the pathetic anxiety of an addict that causes me to panic and get depressed, but knowing this doesn’t help the stir of negative emotions. God damn, I feel like crying… as much as I love the things, I can’t stand them when they’re gone. I dyed my hair black, red, and blue, and I’m changing my name ASAP. Christopher Jay Atkins is so close to non-existence that I can taste it. Fuck, I need money… bad. We pay to be born. We pay to live. We pay to die. How a few pieces of paper and scraps of metal can be given more value than someone’s existence, I will never know. I suppose that’s just how far humanity has fallen. Jesus, it’s come to using the few butts we have left.