You are my heroine.

There comes a time in life when you finally realize you've outgrown childish things; those people who tie you to a life you would like to forget. Perhaps keeping them around in the first place was for the simple purpose of having a constant and sick reminder of who you used to be.

no matter which way you go
no matter which way you stay,
you're out of my mind
out of my mind
i was walking with a ghost,
and i said please
please dont insist

This is me.

Getting over it.

i cried so hard that you pushed me further away
i screamed so loud you called the police on me
i got so city girl on you
i get so sad
that sad gets to be
so scared that all my feelings
they up and leave
me

The face is not as familiar. I don't remember what the scent was like. Perhaps a phase really was the best thing to call it. Right now, it is one I am placing on the shelf, along with every other error in judgement.

i hear noises in the darkness.

Goodbye, Seattle and all its baggage. I won't miss you.

Love,

V.

I feel like I have nothing meaningful to say as of late.

My apartment is organized chaos. I finally found the time (and mental soundness) to remove all things Riley O'riordan from the apartment, and although it took me most of today and an entire box of Kleenex 3-ply, I feel that I have actually put him to rest once and for all. Polaroids, dried flowers, mixed tapes; which are pathetically a weakness of mine, all went out with the garbage. The only thing I couldn't bring myself to get rid of was a sweater he had given me; this hideous, grey cardigan which was much too big and had two holes worn in the bottom of the sleeve as a result of constant pushing of the thumbs through the wool. I save it for the longer nights in here; when my hands get cold and my heart gets heavy. The only thing that can help me fall asleep is to wrap up in that ugly sweater on the couch, while Damien Rice sings me lullabyes of 'O'. Those two things are all I need when it gets dark.

Suprisingly, school is going much better than I had expected. I am in the process of finishing one of the books, "The Art Of Seeing" for my Critical Survey class, but it is taking a hell of alot longer than it should now that "House of Leaves" is sitting on the coffee table, taunting me everytime I try to study. I swear it knows when I am about to do something productive.

Now, in the quietest of moments, I am just going to be very still.

And probably light a cigarette.

i should have so much to say right now, however nothing seems to come out the way it should. not in words, not on paper, even face to face. i returned to this city to get on with my life; let go of all of the skeletons in my closet that seemed to follow me everywhere i went. it is beginning to seem that by trying, i have simply created more. they are much uglier than those i had been hiding, and finally they have caught up with me. with a vengance, i might add.

last night i went out for drinks with a couple of the girls in my media class. for the first time in seemingly months, i managed to make it through the paparazzi line without much of a scene, had a wonderful time abusing my liver and dancing with some italian Ralph Lauren model who found me at the bar, and thought that perhaps four in the morning would be a good time to take home my trophy of the night for a little after party at my place. we left through the back door, and luckily for the citizens of Manhattan, my new friend drove my land rover back to my building, as opposed to myself.

we went inside, made out in the elevator and on into the hallway and managed to make it into my apartment after some time. he was in the kitchen taking a bottle of gray goose out of the freezer when i went into the bathroom.

the last thing i remember prior to this morning, is doing lines off the bathroom counter and thinking i should probably sit down because i felt dizzy.

anyhow, i opened my eyes in a private room at St. Vincents this morning, suffering apparantly from alcohol poisoning with an embarrasing amount of cocaine in my bloodstream. they pumped my stomach, which i imagine took them awhile, and put me on some heavy sedatives to keep me asleep for the rest of the night. there was no way i was staying there, however, so upon waking up and signing dozons of papers for billing purposes, i checked myself out.

so now i am back at home, on the couch with five stitches in my forehead which i assume i received after falling onto the bathroom sink, and a ten page paper to write on the crime rate in South Africa. i should have asked my friend from last night for his name; he surely should get a thank you card for covering my face when he carried me into the emerg department, and for not calling an ambulance which would surely have led to a visit by the police regarding the stash in the water box on my toilet. at least i don't need to worry about this showing up in the papers, right?

i could really use some ice cream. or some hot chocolate. or a friend.

xoxo
v

i need a phonecall...

it has been a long three months. ironically, i came to this city to escape my own demons and i found myself dealing with someone else's. those demon's took him to some corner of the earth i could never imagine following, and all i can do is hope that he is safe and sleeping sound these days.

on the other hand, i am not. this apartment is so damn cold without him. there is no life here anymore; not the sound of his arrogant laughter when i wake up in the morning, sans make-up, or the scent of the red's he smoked far too often. i wish he would come back.

school is going much better than the previous semester. it is likely due to the fact that the hours i spend awake when the sun is coming up, chain smoking by an open window have led to some of the most truthful things i have ever put on paper. i find solace in the written word; it is the one thing no one can ever truly take away. it does not judge, unless i want it to. it is supportive when i hurt. it is angry when i cry. it understands when i am incapable of doing so.

a pen and a piece of paper are all i really have anymore. but maybe that is the one thing i was supposed to take out of all of this in the first place.

i miss you.

v.

i am hanging on every word you say, and
even if you don't want to sleep tonight, that's alright
alright with me
because i want nothing more than to
sit outside your door
and listening to you breathing.
it's where i want to be.

i am not going to comment on the ugly rumor that is circulating. or how i found out about it. i am not even going to say so much as a word regarding the past few weeks and the things i have seen and heard, said or done. truth be told, i feel like i am entirely alone right now; in this apartment, in this city, in the whole wide world.

( Private Letter to Ri )

Introductions are something I have never been good at. In any event, my name is Valerie Elizabeth Cantwell. I would much prefer that you would not call me 'Val', as that sounds a hell of alot cheaper than I am.

How did I become such a rich bitch at 22? I am the heir to an oil fortune, fatherless at 14, coming from Seattle, Washington. Daddy was driving home from business in Kansas when his car went off the road, and I was sitting in the livingroom window, waiting for him to pull in through the gate long after the police called and my mother began her first of many nervous breakdowns. We always had money while I was growing up, but he made sure I appreciated it back then. Once he was gone, I had all the money in the world at my disposal with no one to moniter my spending; I created the life to which I have become accustom with his hard earned dollars, and every once in awhile I feel guilty for that. I highly doubt he would be proud of the ten of thousands of dollars that went up my nose, or the four cars I totalled while cruising downtown with my head in the stars.

As a pretty girl who always drove a BMW with Jimmy Choo's pressing the gas, boys were never an issue for me. Well, making them love me wasn't. It is the returning of the sentiment that became impossible, and since the last time I went through it, I have vowed to remain unattached. It really isn't because I feel guilt or sadness for the boys involved; really, I just got tired of receiving tear-filled phonecalls in the middle of the night. I am beginning to think I am incapable of really loving anyone. Besides myself, that is.

Anyhow, for the time being, I am content to live in solitude with my books, surrounded by my Guess handbags and dancing shoes that have never seen the floor, miles away from my Mother and her newfound revolving door of men who aren't my Daddy. She might be able to forget him, his eyes and his hands. But I can't. I never will.


Any questions? Didn't think so.


( 20 things you don't know, and probably don't want to, about Valerie )