hey universe long time no _ – Elizabeth Victoria Aldrich

hey universe long time no ___!


I couldn’t wait to be alive: so here i am. my self-starter heartbeat is an alarm clock, it tells me when i go off, it warns me to be patient. neuropeptides, ACT and hormones do the gruntwork, the throbbing behind my eyes rides on their successes: the supreme failure. there will be time enough to laugh all this off, this time that had no time.


you’re always too late, you’re always in the wrong, everything in every way is ultimately, thoroughly, deeply and mysteriously





(have i told you lately that i love you?

you know who you are. you know how i feel.)


the rest can go to hell.




a lot of the time lately i’d be lying if i didn’t say i was seriously tempted to push a passerby in front of the subway. i want to pull an andrew goldstein; shove a complete stranger with uncanny timing in the path of an oncoming train. but i want to scream WELCOME TO MY WORLD!!!!!! while doing it (escorting someone from this stage of conscious existence to another). anything less is just not worth it.




sometimes i lift my gaze and am stripped. i assume the equivalent mental position of someone shifting their weight about, tipping drastically to free the sand or water from their ear.


and life never has the last word.

(i am 115 lbs. very, very few people know i even exist.)




there are things closer to me than my own skin. it’s important that you know this; one day you’ll be the only one alive who still remembers how to call me by name, from heart.




how long to: withstand.

i shut my eyes now wherever i go, protectively, reflexively; insurance i Won’t miss a thing.


(every entrance is an exit, every exit is no exit; we’re really going places, hey-hey!)




you forget to manage to take into account to encounter the fact i am not in living contact with any single thing. (there is no ‘head-on’ from here.) i have recurring nightmares of secret passages under staircases leading to cramped, forlorn, ill-lit taverns with no one but my projection of a barkeep, where i always order the same damned drink; & secret trysts with disloyal pen pals from beyond the quasars. none of it reconciles. i keep dreaming of purgatory? but it’s just a different take on my day-to-day.


i have never stopped dying, i have never slowed down, not for you not for me not for a second. brrr! i only write because there is a worm which keeps burrowing through my brain, i only write because these days i am so broken-down and self-disgusted the path of least resistance has yet to be blazed, i trample on through this undaunted. as khayyam-fitzgerald would say, “fools! your reward is neither here nor there.” it takes more effort to resist than it does to acquiesce. i do what i must do and leave the rest to you.




no harm no foul.

even my indolence is deceitful;

the self is the easiest camouflage for

everything else.


my whole body lies when it lies,

a space is never less emptier than me.




Suicide counsel carousel.


keep beating those wings.


i’m sure to the bottom of my shoes one day in the unforeseeable soon i’ll be laying on the floor holding my sides wincing at the paint peeling off the walls of my rented room eyes glazed maudlin funny foreign wet with unfathomable effusions withdrawing circulation from itself and subsiding into faint tripping lazily over the words with the mind’s tongue i’ll hold the heat from my heart and barely audible murmur


and i still consider you a great friend for doing this


(so bequeathing my nude and anonymous corpse to the peeling paint and the empty bottles my only great friends the curtain will close on this desperate miscarriage of sense at once and forever)




Kat’s last messages to me on tumblr


i’m crazy high on ketamine i know you still follow me i dont know why anywaya i just had this re-enactment experience like you were really in my bed again so real like a vine & i wanted to tell you that if they made a movie about my life you’d be a big part of it & no it’s not only bc you were the metastatic cancer killing me while my dad was really dying. but if they made a movie about your life you wouldnt even remember to put me in the script bc my cameo in your life is that insignificant.


so i wanted to say that it’s ok. that i will always be the girl you call high on stolen oxy after being at slc for a month to ask if i could leave benzos w my doorman so you wouldnt have to see me & you stole pieces of my past & made them your own, like slc, like the heroin addiction you couldnt WAIT to have & thats all ok. but you were here for weeks & i didnt even occur to you & still when i visit my sis in LA i think of you. to you i wasn’t a last thought bc to you i wasn’t a thought at all.


I’m back to reality now & hate that I wrote to you. It was like you were physically here … doing the things we did during the … what? Two or three days we were actually together in person? Like a lucid dream of memories I thought had disappeared a very long time ago. I’m being Rx’ed Ketamine to prevent suicide & although I hope I won’t revisit those few inconsequential days out of all of the days I’ve been alive, I promise I will not contact you if a trigger of you does occur. Not again.




Kat’s mom has the same birthday as Sarah. March 2nd is when Sarah died. Mila’s birthday is March 3rd. Kat’s birthday is March 4th. Sarah was born January 28th and so was Kat’s mom. 


The number 626 always is around and I don’t like it.


I am naked and not wearing contacts and I have to pee and it is cold and why is there always an old man I have to share a house with when I meet my dreamgirl. 


Her ex girlfriend was such a gross slut that the fact that I fucked that guy who fucked a goat didn’t gross her out. Mila asked me to fuck him after I made her tell him that she was my girlfriend and not my cousin. Neither of us were into it, me and the guy. We just always did what she told us to. I feel guilty whenever I talk about her. Like I failed her.


My mother was born on October 25th and my current girlfriend was born on October 26th. If I like dyke haircuts because they remind me of my mom’s chemotherapy hair that would be fucked so I don’t think about it. I maintain I have no parental issues. The only time I couldn’t call someone daddy in bed was when I was fucking the guy living across the street from him.