|Reading these suicide pages you will find people seeking help and people offering their help. Some witness about suicide from real life experience, others who play along with me would pretend it's a children's game. Some make sick and cruel jokes about it, and angry people blame me for even mentioning the subject. You might also want to read my favourite answers. If you want your answer to be included here, fill in the form.|
What is the best way to kill yourself when you're under 13?
Quelle est la meilleure forme de suicide pour les moins de 13 ans?
|12 May 2003||Felicia in PMS mode||Hmphf! Snotty celebs on my recent website. No offense to you Lucy. It's these prima donnas have already gotten their boob jobs and I have none. They are fashioning up their Shakira like qualities and shaking their small, small asses. Left and warmed out like a melted crayon. Farted out like a can of pinto beans, thrown in a bleached pool and making my blonde highlights look green. Where's the deodorant?!! GADS!! There is none! I'm out of pads, I ran out of tampons!!!
Help! Help! Someone drank my last can of TAB cola!!!
|11 May 2003||just a girl||oh and auntie lucy... you will have to wait till next time to hear my naughty confessions.. ;) (althought im not too sure they will measure up to that of a sexually breast obsessed gal.. like urself)
|11 May 2003||just a girl||"Thank god for television!" is my quote for today.. as i woke to the inevitable and unbearable phenomenon of being, well, me... just a girl..
But of course waking at 3am in the morning does arise a certain feeling and/or thought, in this profound, yet slightly insane head of mine.. what to do? what on earth can i do with myself at an hour like this.. what pessimistic activity must i encounter in order for me to stay alive, for yet another day.. another obnoxious day in which i must find pointless deeds to be done to prevent me from wondering into my kitchen to find that handsomely large glistening knife.. which sits peacefully and patiently in mummy's drawer... waiting for me.
But at 3am?? what activity is present for a 16-year-old lonely, depressed, anorexic and suicidal girl such as myself to take part in.. no computer in site.. no kittens playing with bubble wrap.. no chocie biscutes to digest in the emaciated tummy which lies before me.. no lucy cortina stories to read!.. no noise.. no sound.. only the constant humming of the diluted thoughts running through my head..(oh my!) what to? do what to do?... and suddenly.. as my hand scrambled through my sheets to find an exit, (intending to head to that kitchen draw of mummy's) i came across a long, black mechanism... yes it was.. my tv remote.. "peep".. and to my delight a sudden glow entered my room.. "but wait! there's more..."
And as the sun came up this gloomey sunday morning (mother's day.. o yippee yay..) i had made it through another night watching danoz direct adds talk about the one and only.. 'abb-doer' (is there a boobie-doer too?) as the morning hours passed me by..
"Thank god for television!"
|11 May 2003||Lucy Cortina||Dear just a girl:
This site is wondefrul eh? Like a boobie love parlour. If you want to say anything, I am here :) Any naughty confessions u would like to make to auntie Cortina?
|10 May 2003||Lucy Cortina||Normally just before 6pm in the evening, my mum says to me:
"Lucy, I'm going to have a bath at six!" so that if I need the loo I could quickly go, before she used the bathroom to sit in her own filth - surrounded by bubbles - for 10 hours.
So it came as a shock yesterday when she said:
"Lucy, I'm going in the shed at six!"
Millions of horrific thoughts raced through my innocent brain at that precise moment. Thoughts like:
"Has she become a Victorian and now takes baths in a cast iron tub with carbolic soap, using the shed to spare her blushes?"
It will be more than my thick skin can stand if we have to start wearing lacy blouses and wearing skirts as long as the Eiffel tower. And have to sit in front of a coal fire sipping mint infused tea, saying "we are not amused" when a newsreader wearing makeup (i.e. - all of them) appears on the TV screen (which incidentally would be black and white, so god knows how we could tell makeup from the fuzz).
She was, infact, going to pot some new plants for her flowerbeds. I have explained to her before that gardening is a hobby for people who get to that stage in life where they.. well... no longer have a life.
My granddad once told me that, as a child, my mum used to sneak off into the shed with her mates for a quick cigarette, and he would see clouds of smoke emitting from the shed. As I know what a naughty woman my mum is, I went outside at 6pm to investigate my suspicions.
Sure enough, clouds of smoke were emitting from the shed! As I got closer, I could smell burning strawberry.
"Oh nooooo! Mum may have finally flipped and is murdering Dad's entire home-grown fruit and veg collection!" I thought.
Mum was annoyed last week because Dad seemed to be spending so much time playing Madonna records to his cabbages and sprouts in the garden, to try and get them to grow and reproduce (or whatever it is that cabbages and sprouts do, apart from make you fart). He had been playing Madonna's "Get Into The Groove" (what a perverted title for a song!) when Mum snapped, and ripped dad's favourite cabbage from the soil. She then proceeded to boil the cabbage in a pan - the screams of the poor cabby could be heard for miles around.
Anyway, back to the present - I feared opening the door to the shed, as I may have discovered my Mum gleefully covered in strawberry flesh, armed with a potato peeler.
Eventually I opened the door... to discover Mum sat in the corner, looking all dopey. She had what looked like a cigarette in her hand. But sticking out form the nub of the cig was... wait for it... a strawberry! It was all black and bubbly.
"Do youshhh wantsshh shuuuum?" 'asked' my mum.
Why, oh why, did I not commit suicide sooner? I ran back to the house screaming, and took out mum's vitamin C tablets, and shoved a load into my mouth.
Which is when I remembered the "cod-liver-oil-tablet-overdose" escapade. Noooo! I was going to end up like an orange! As if I don't already have enough orange-peel skin on my thighs...
|09 May 2003||Rrose Sélavy||http://www.art-bin.com/bilder/cuts.jpg
Brandish against your self-person the pointed comments of parental gas bags, graphite-clawed teachers with lively, turgid murmuring cunts and the stacked packs of randomly drawn bruise-and-tear substratum playmates manifested most corporeally as the metaphor of your kitchen's knife drawer. *cough, cough, cough*
BLACK LUNG INTERLUDE (enjoy the sonorous ululations of my orange phlegm rattling against the inflamed walls of my passed-gagged throat cavity)
With the aid of hara-kiri, as your alimentary tracts slither down your abdomen, Rorschach hemoglobules of splattered ink pressed between sheets of linen or lined notepaper may provide fruitful self-discovery or at least busy-work for distraction until safely through the passways of mortality.
"Cliiiiiiiiiimb in", is purportedly how the non-imposturing Charon will cheerily form his admonition, the whole two-cents bit being the last con on hapless schlemiels by predatory grifters adrift on and addicted to Lethe. Grow a long thumbnail with a spare on hand for popping the top off fresh heaped corpses and oblong boxes of overdone chicks done in under heat lamps. A quaff off the frothy top and let the rest reside spilled on the ground with the gravitationally collected residues, bits of grit and clear gristle buboes floating like overgrown corpuscles in the heady dregs of the chick's evacuated body abode. STAB, STAB, STAB, circumferentially perforate the neck pylons of the newly abused before every goddamn gimp floating around from methanated vent to methanated vent on a bat-wing umbrella drops in and skirmishes for the untorn, still tagged, unclaimed necrotic carbonated refreshment. What a chick is to the 12 FL OZ of terrestrian sweetened blood-guzzling POP! a wholesale corpse is to the hops and barley sloshed in an aluminum keg's tummy. *cough, cough, cough, cough, cough....*
|06 May 2003||Lucy Cortina||Note to Christina Aguilera, Britney Spears et all: Don't bother with the all year tannning crap.
Do what I did, overdose on Vitamin C tablets.
I am ready to take the entertainment world by storm.. once these breasts grow back.
|01 May 2003||Lucy Cortina||This just ain't funny anymore. Whoever offended God in my name must step forward now. Why does he hate me so much??
Surely he can't be jealous of my ability to grow such strong, healthy boobies? I mean, they were even bigger than Buddha's, and God planned to spike Buddha's jam doughnuts with Bust-reductO juice in the end.
I long to see the day when Britney Spears is aged 50 and still dancing around in bed-sheets and skirts that barely cover her ass. Well, she covers her face with makeup anyway, so we never get to see the real ass. Anyway, she's dancing at age 50, when suddenly her breasts explode live on stage, because God hates her because on her 49th birthday she finally gave in and shed her virginity, by reading a Jackie Collins novel.
Back to the point the latest horreur in my 'life' ('existence' might be a more suitable word), was waking up from a dream, where I was being chased by an enormous ass. For once, I wasn't being chased by Britney Spears. Or even J-Lo for that matter *snigger* (that reminds me J-Lo attempted to poach Kylie Minogue's ass-makeup-stylist this week, as reported in recent news. Afraid to say it J-Lo, but the only makeup you will get on that ass will be a certain type from your Dear Ben).
Anyway I went to the bathroom to cleanse and tone. As the warm water from the iron tap cascaded into the sink, I looked down.
And let out a scream.
There was poo in the sink! There WAS!! I'm not joking. So I ran screaming down the stairs and around the house, like a Marathon runner, and did about 10 laps of the whole place. Once the horreur had been released from my young and sensitive brain which, incidentally, is like a sponge, and soaks up tragedy like this in an instant I crept back into the bathroom. The sight was still the same, except I had left the tap running and now water was gushing over the rim of the sink. And the water was not alone. Poo was floating on top of it... and getting closer to me by the second! So I once again ran screaming down the stairs. But the poo was following me! Like a stalker!
The water was starting to rise to the level where my smoothly-shaved legs were. I ran faster. The poo floated faster. Then suddenly... I tripped over one of my sisters Barbie dolls.
Head first onto the water-filled floor.
The poo floated closer... and closer... and closer....
I couldn't get back up! Help! HELP me!
It floated closer.. and closer...
And I woke up.
I had fallen asleep in the back yard in my sisters paddling pool, which may explain the watery dream. As soon as the thought occurred to me... it became reality. My sister was there too and she was not alone.
It's a shame Mum doesn't affix a shopping bag around her legs instead of using cheapo nappies from Kwik Save.
How could anything else contain such an enormous, and smelly bulge?
|29 Apr 2003||Lucy Cortina||Felicia baby, do not fear. In my darkest moments I was thinking "I don't need to do this...", when an angelic light appeared. Do you know what the light was shining on? It was shining directly upon the packet of chocolate and caramel biscuits on the table next to my bed. I reached up with my frailest of hands, I barely had the energy to lift the biscuit to my decaying mouth. As I was doing so, my sister ran into my room screaming "booby booby booby booby booby.... Mummy had a poo". I had no clue as to what planet she was currently visiting. Anyway, as she was so kind, she decided we would have a party with the chocolate and caramel biscuits. She didn't realise it at the time, but she was stopping my suicidal thoughts. She brought in party poperers, and most importantly - balloons. These are what saved my life. I was able to pump them up and pop them under my t-shirt, so it looked like I had a cleavage again. Until one of them popped, and I ran to the kitchen to overdose on my mum's cod liver oil capsules. I may end up looking like a cod. Good grief, I didn't think of that at the time! I don't want a "trout pout" like those other celebs. And I don't wanna end up looking like a fish!
Oh well... I guess if I do, some loony with a rod will pluck me out of this crazy sea of life, and cover me with batter and oil. And I will end up on a plate next to mushy peas in some Fish and Chip rstaurant in the backstreets London. Then to earn money I will become a fish-prostitute. Ok, my mind is racing too far ahead now! Time for my Prozac...
|27 Apr 2003||Lucy Cortina||Can you believe it? I'm still alive! A bit of emergency surgery helped me to come to terms with the loss of my warm friends, my breasts. That and a few whiskies. The boobie-cremation is next Tuesday. I am still in the mourning period, I'm not even eating (well, I did have a few packets of chocolate cookies, to keep blood sugar levels high). I have never been a fan of surgery etc.
But then I think of Tony Blair's hideous wife - her hideous letterbox shaped mouth! I mean, she's supposed to be the Prime Minister's wife, if she really loved her husband she would get some botox done. Or at least some collagen injected into those lips. Maybe she can be Tony's secret weapon against Sadham Insane. He could send her over to Iraq on Mission Kissing. She can pout and threaten to kiss every Iraqui soldier. Yuk yuk!! Why do these thoughts get into my head? Why can't I control this brain of mine?!
If I could open up my brain and let you all in for boat cruises, I would. But then you would never get out...
Suicide is still option number 3. I will tell you options 1 and 2 another day.
|26 Apr 2003||Felicia||He babysat me last night. I was putting on some negligee and he started grabbing my legs. Clint was a very excited. I told him to stop as I lay my head on the carpet. He was quite playful and nibbling me. Lola told me to not tease him. I told Lola that it was okay for Clint to be my babysitter for the evening. As Lola was trying to leave, Clint held the door closed and forced her to stay. He complained and started crying. As she left, Clint had a solemn look to his face. In the freezer I took out the honey breakfast sausages and fried them in the pan. I made some omelette too. I fed them all to Clint because he was quite hungry and we instantly became close. In the freezer, I grabbed a half pint of chocolate mint ice cream, picked up a spoon, and went to the living room to put on the television. I grabbed a quilt blanket. I sat on the couch and Clint was trying to jump on me. I yelled stop and told him to get down because he was getting feisty. He wanted a taste of my ice cream. I said, "No!" So Clint decided to lay low and be quite for a while. The room was warm, no one was in sight. The evening became longer.
...As I stroked his head and lay right next to Clint.
...The new love of my life ;o)
A german shepherd's affection and the coziness in front of a warm television watching cartoons.
|25 Apr 2003||Lucy Cortina||That's IT! Today my new silky bra snapped - it was like Hangman, like those people who hang themselves and their faces turn all pale, like plucked and tanned chicken flesh. But it was my breasts that were hanged, they weigh so much as it is - I estimate each breast at least to weigh 90 KG. And I suspect one is heavier than the other, possibly by an extra 12 Kilograms.
Anyway, my breasts were dangling down after they lost the support of the bra. So you could call it Hangtit, or Hangbust, or even Hangwoman - it could be the new game. Anyway.
My breasts were aphyxiated (however you spell it - I never went to 'grammar' school, hehe). So without those blooming beauties, my career, and my heart, is dead.
My time to commit suicide has come. Or breasticide. No, sorry, that's already happened and is the reason I'm committing suicide, duh! =(
Mouchette.org has managed to maitain my "lust" (*ooh!*) for life for, well, about 2 years now, since my 16th birthday, in 2001.
Be proud. Be proud of yourselves.
For putting up with my self-obsessed, and sexually, breastually active personality for so long.
See you all in Heaven.
Cos I spent this life in Hell.
|19 Apr 2003||Lucy Cortina||Life as a teenage SSSS spy agent is sure tough work. Maintaining ones breasts in itself is a big (boob) job. As I was getting ready for my latest mission, my tiny tot sister ran into my room laughing "Lalalalala I'm a Minogue!!" She had been listening to Kylie, of course.
She then begged me to take her "out dancing". I said no, I'm busy. She then said she wanted to come on my mission with me. Just as I was lifting my heavy-weight new rubber strengthened bra, she yanked it from my hands, the little mite, and ran off with it. So I pursued, my boobs shaking and wobbling side to side all through the house. I expect the neighbours got a nice surprise seeing my bosoms bobbling about like that. They probably think my parents run a part-time nudist camp as well as Breast HQ. My sister ran into the bathroom, and held the bra dangerously over the toilet pan.
"Me come", she said. I had no time to negotiate so.... I lied.
"Look sissy, Mr Piggles is going for a fly in the garden!"
"Where? Me see, me see!!!" she screamed. She dropped the bra, which thankfully landed with a sharp thud on the bathroom floor.
I grabbed it and ran off to my room, where thankfully my Danny had parked the new SSSS Cortina Mobile a few minutes earlier.
My sister thinks Mr Piggles is our neighbour. Sadly, the only truth to that is our neighbours hidous facial features.
Do expect my sister to enter this website by the age of 13. I don't think it will even take that long before she wants to discuss suicide. Just look at what hell members of the Cortina family are put through...
|17 Apr 2003||Felicia||The Hollow Chocolate Bunny
Theres the chocolate bunny,
sitting on the shelf,
looking oh so yummy,
I laugh in spite myself.
The box is oh so yellow,
wrapped in cellophane.
With lips curled up to eat them,
I felt a hunger pain.
Diet, oh forget it!
I wallow in my shame,
I stare at my protruding mass,
I think that I am game.
Monkeys eat bananas.
Horses eat just hay.
Humans eat just anything,
and find theres hell to pay.
Screw the resolution,
Ill exercise tomorrow,
My calorie intake,
Ole Billys bike Ill borrow.
Lucy and her boobies,
The boys stare as we state,
Ill think Ill cook some chicken
and just use "Shake and Bake".
Forget about the chocolate.
My willpower's just bad.
I ate the chocolate bunny,
Its the best I ever had.
Happy Easter all you folks,
Boil eggs, have fun,
Color them real carefully,
And dry them when theyre done.
Dont forget to indulge on that chocolate hollow bunny, and promise me youll eat the ears first.
...Because thats the best part.
To all my friends at Mouchette.org who celebrate or don't celebrate Easter.
The ones who don't...
think of all the candy.
|17 Apr 2003||Lucy Cortina||Yeah I have been offered this website. Appealing to my greed of this site is something Mouchette knows will work :)
Alas, I am too busy with mundane activities like living and powdering my breasts to bother running a site like this. And my SSSS missions do take up a lot of time, it is by no means easy tracking down Britney's breasts. I know I know, they ARE big, but at the time my fat neighbour had stood up and his huge ass had covered the moon.
Just wait. I'll save Britney's career. yes, we have produced the world's first voice implants! Britney is going to be able to sing pretty soon, so grab those earmuffs....
|17 Apr 2003||Chris||I know you want to kill yourself but I also know that you feel relieved and satisfied when you hear about other people dying. I just wrote this story especially for you. Read on if you've got the guts. Here's...
The Three Little Piggies
The Wilsons needed to go out
So they left Andrea about
She had to look after two boys
She had to put away their toys
If she got hungry she could eat
She could have anything indeed
They would be back by half past one
And she would do all to be done,
She played with the boys (and put away their toys)
She gave them to eat (and left everything neat)
She put them to sleep (and they slept very deep)
She then was relaxed (and could do what she pleased)
Stepping out of her red shoes
She went in the kitchen to have some booze
There was wine, brandy, vodka and beer
And then there was whisky, so bright and so clear
She chose Jack Daniels, you know it's the best
But then she mixed it with some of the rest
She sat relaxed by the warmth of the fire
Sipping her drink with no other desire
She began feeling tired and was thinking of bed
But then there was ringing around in her head
't was the telephone, so noisy, so damned
As she picked it up, the other end slammed
It was a wrong number, like she wished it would be
For she didn't want to talk, not to you, nor to me
But then sleep had gone, she switched on the T.V
Where there was sound,life and a sweet melody
Things became cheery, but then became eery
For the phone rang again and again and again!
Hello. This is Five-seven-four-double two...
Can you please tell me who the fuck are you?
An insane laugh came came down the phone
It chilled every nerve and chilled every bone
"There were three little piggies, Oh what fun!
Two were disembowelled, then there was one!"
"Go to hell!", Andrea screamed
The other voice laughed, the other voice beamed
She began feeling nervous, said she needed a smoke
She believed it will help you in avoiding a stroke
Something good, something great, perfect and smooth
Marlborlo, nicotine, cover your lungs in sooth
The phone rang again, Andrea felt mad
She felt very sick and she felt very bad
When she picked up the phone there was the gruff voice
He told her "I'll get you, you just have no choice!"
She slammed down the phone and started to yell
"Why doesn't this pervert go somewhere in hell?"
She picked up the phone, dialled the operator
"Can you please trace a call of a damned perpetrator?
My number is five-seven-four-double two five
And I wish that this pervert just wasn't alive!"
"I am concerned" Mrs.Operator was saying
"But you're paid to work, not concerning or praying!"
Andrea sat back, feeling calm and relieved
Buit she soon got to know that she was deceived
The phone rang and rang; the gruff voice again
He wished her bad luck, he wished her some pain
"There was one little piggy, oh what fun!
Her throat was slit, then there was none!"
Lighting up a cigarette, Andrea paced the room
She was watching the phone, she was waiting for doom
Finally it rang, but it was Mrs.Operator
She wanted to ask a question as an investigator
"Do you have another phone in the house where you are staying?"
"Why, yes, there's one with the boys, but what the fuck are you saying?"
Mrs.Operator talked in a frightened tone
"Whoever has been calling has been using that phone
Run out of the house, there's not much you can do
It can be a joke, it can be very true!"
Half stumbling and half running, she went on the way out
Opening the kitchen door, she gave a real, big shout
The sight which met her bulging eyes
Sent her vomiting in surprise
A huge man looking grotesque
Was nothing but very picturesque
Like wading through a flood
Of very red, hot blood
He was spluttered and stained with a blood spattered chopper in one hand...
Something steamy, hot and with a sticky smell in the other hand...
On the top of the stairs, the boys (or what was left of them)...
They had been disembowelled and their insides completely cleaned out...
Slowly the man moved towards Andrea, leaving behind a trail of blood...
What a pervert I am for writing this, and what perverts you are for reading it, but wait- Isn't this exactly what American and British soldiers are doing to little Iraqi childrens. Imagine it the other way. A small Iraqi child disembowelling Bush & Blair and then slitting Saddam Hussein's throat (those three little piggies-you know that everything they do is out of greed). Oh, what days of glory I dream about...
|13 Apr 2003||Lucy Cortina||Billy, I like the style of your quotation marks better than mine. Where did you get them? Why can't I have any?
it's ok for you, you can just have a little implant to give yourself tits if you wanted to. No one cares for girls wanting quotation marks. Hmmphh!
Oh, my latest mission, by the way, is to investigate the theft of Britney Spears' breast implants (god forbid!), and the theft of Kylie Minogue's underwear collection. There was also mention of an attempted raid on Christina Aguilera's mansion. I think someone wsas trying to steal her makeup collection. She wears so much of it that it is worth billions, as she only buys in bulk.
I will inform you all of the results. Well, I suspect the results would be that Christina would never leave the house again. Britney would use a ballon pump to fill her fakie-less tits with air, and Kylie would just wear no underwear. Which some people might like...
|12 Apr 2003||Mr Mystery||STORY
One day (let's call him Bill, he's about 6 feet tall, and has brown hair and eyes, in his early 20's, and is slightly balding) Bill was walking on the street and decided to go buy a few things at the store. After browsing the aisles for a while he was finally done. He had purchased.. oh let's say, 8 bottles of tylenol, a 8 foot rope, a new set of kitchen knives and.. nah that's it.
Bill then decided to head home, where he was then approached by a shadowy figure, a man. The man asked Bill why he bought all those things, Bill had no answer. The man then opened the knife set, and the pills. The man then forced Bill into eating all 8 bottles then tied a noose in the rope, and hung it up outside on the porch. The man then stabbed Bill in the stomach and hung him up right in the center of the porch, outside.
When the neighbors were asked who did this, they described a man, he's about 6 feet tall, and has brown hair and eyes, in his early 20's.
|12 Apr 2003||Lucy Cortina||Why do people want to contact me???
You can't stop me now, I'm going to have a breast reduction!
Oh god, a man in a red suit is staring at me.
"Step away from the operating table..." he says.
Is it too late? Tune in next week to find out! What happens to Lucy's breasts?
|11 Apr 2003||billy the freak||i met jerry garcia, well, he was really a bum who looked like jerry garcia, i mean play the guitar, strung out on drugs, and everything type dude. i saw him in the park with a small crowd around him, and nothing attracts a crowd like a crowd, so, i went over to watch him play and maybe drop a dollar in his ratty old guitar case. witnessing the spectacle i was blown off my feet, i could swear he was the man himself if i didn't know jerry died of a drug overdose about ten years ago.
his long stringy uncombed hair was pulled back in a ponytail. his beard was long as well, however he did keep that trimmed up well, probably to keep it from matting. he wore a blue pocket t-shirt and a pair of ripped up levi's. he was barefoot on the grass, but had a pair of sandals near his guitar case. and to top it all off his glasses were tinted blue. spitting image i tell you. he played a couple songs by eric clapton, tom petty, some johnny cash; you know stuff that sounds good acoustic without a band. i had to admit the man had talent. then he did it; he played touch of gray. when he sung out the words, i will get by, i will survive. i was hooked; i wanted to know this man.
when he finished the song he thanked the crowd (which was much larger now then when I first came over) for their admiration. he then proceeded to pack his gear; he slipped on his sandals and was out. i was going to get on my way at first but, desire overtook me, i ran across the park to catch up with him. when i caught up with him the only thing i could think of to say was hey.
he turned around and said what.
i was so taken by your performance i forgot to put this in your case. i pulled a five out my wallet and handed it to him. he turned around and kept walking. instinct told me to go, but, but jerry...
did you hear what i said man, this is yours. i said.
i dont want it. he replied rather sternly.
you accepted all that money from them people back there, whats wrong with my money, huh? not really understanding fully, my emotions raged. And I started get stern back.
listen pal. he said. when im playing my guitar and singing i go somewhere else, on a mental level, and when i come back, there is money in my guitar case. i dont know how it got there, but i appreciate every thin dime, thank the lord. i dont accept hand outs.
you know damn well how it got there. i said. people who watch you and like what they see and hear pay you because they are entertained. i softened up when i thought of his performance. if you dont let me give you this, let me take you to lunch.
why wont you leave me alone? he asked.
because everyone has a story, i want to hear yours. my reply must have freaked him out because he took a long hard stare at me. like nobody ever asked him what his story was before. sure he looked like jerry garcia, played the guitar, and sings, but thats not all, i know.
what are you? he asked. i bet you're some college student trying to interview vagrants.
no man. i said. i am simply trying to reward you for your talents. he started to laugh.
talents he said. dont make me laugh. well since you are being so persistent you can buy me a coffee at the coffeehouse in the train station. we can talk some there. i got to wait for my bus.
i agreed with his request and got excited that was actually going to get to talk to him. when we got to the train station it was packed and there was hardly any room to sit at the coffeehouse. when we did find a seat i asked him where he was going.
san fran my man then blew out a big breath of air that maid his cheeks expand. you going to get some coffee? he asked.
sure i said. what would you like?
regular black, is cool he said.
you got it. i said and took off towards the counter. there was a pretty long line so i must have waited a good six or seven minutes before i was served. then i took his regular black and my expresso back to the table. to my surprise, but yet not so suprisingly jerry was gone. all that was there was a five-dollar bill and a note that said: coffee's on me. then over the intercom i heard a man say last call for twenty-three thirty seven san francisco. i picked up the five and let the coffee sit. when i left the train station there was a short lady with a bucket ringing a bell for donations to the salvation army, i stuck the five in her bucket.
bless you my child she said as she smiled.
i walked pretty much thoughtless, but broken hearted to my car three blocks away. the mind and the heart have a way of working against each other and it can make one distraught. when i got in and turned the ignition the radio came to life with it. it was the grateful dead playing touch of grey the live version and the real jerry was singing his heart out. then i thought, i will get by, i will survive.