Left for Garbage

attention to my music career for the time being. Until more things break, at least I’m staying true to myself
    Another thing that sucks is that I’ve had to close of f all of my social networking accounts online - including MySpace, Twitter, and Facebook - as I’ve been bombarded by people who want nothing more than to hear about Denise’s murder case, and I’m done with that. I’m about the music and entertainment industry now, man. I’m not like CNN. I mean, I’ll do my duty and shit for the court, but beyond that, I’m done with this little scenario.
    My old man is insisting on going with me to Florida when the date for my testimony is set. That’s fine with me . I can use his support. The whole state is nothing but a bad memory and I doubt I’ll ever step foot there again after this trial is over with. For me, one seriously hot mess of a girl that my dick had the bad fortune to fall into and the whole place just turned to garbage for me. Her and all her lies, and her whacked-out family, and her poor little dead baby that she killed, it’s some sick shit.
    I get edgy even thinking about having to talk about , and relive, that whole mess on the stand. They’re going to ask me about the gas cans and make me talk about a lot of shit that I’ve been trying to forget. Back last winter, some girl from the prosecutor’s office flew out here to talk to me, and she was pretty hot, and I think I just spilled more shit than I should have, because now I’m going to have to say it all, and it’s weird, weird bad stuff. It’s about those dreams Denise had. Fuck, talking about them is going to give me bad dreams because I get it now, I know what she was dreaming about. See, Denise had nightmares all of a sudden, or at least it seemed like that to me, but once I did the math it wasn’t all of a sudden: the dreams, or nightmares, started right after she stopped bringing Deeley over, and now we all know why. She started waking up in cold sweats and trembling in the middle of the night - every night, actually. I thought she was having bad dreams from something she’d ate, like anchovies, which do it to me even though I love them, or maybe she’d seen a bad movie or something.
    She told me it was because she was afraid of losing me. Sick to think I was kind of flattered by that since I think it’s pretty obvious that what she was seeing when she closed her eyes were her own memories of , say, carrying the dead corpse of her little baby girl around in her trunk. The worst part is that I used to, like, hold her afterwards to try and make her feel better. When I think of that shit I want to take some Comet and a brush to my skin. I’m not playing you, it’s really how I feel. I hooked up with a real piece of work there, and if anyone thinks I haven’t learned to be the most cautious guy on earth from all this, think again.
    I was already thinking of ways to lose Denise even before her mother busted in to take her away, and was wondering how t o get her out of my apartment. Seriously, I was thinking of going with my usual ‘It’s been good but not real good’ text the night her old lady came in and did me a huge solid by getting her out of there. Denise was like moved in: she’d spread her nasty shit all over my place and used my Jeep while I was out of town, cuz hers was in the shop, she said. Uhm, okay, shop meaning, as we now know, dead child, bad smell, ditched. But true this, she was taking over my place and my life, and I dodged a bullet there - who knows, maybe a real one.
    I do not like to think about her now. I have no good memories of her. I’m sorry I ever met her.
    Lots of girls write to me to express their sympathy, and I appreciate it, but at this point I have to say that I’m going to do what my dad suggests and run some background checks on any chick I’m thinking of spending more than an hour with, if you know what I’m saying. And, right now, even that much of a committed relationship freaks me. I think, to be straight, that I might be dealing with one of those post-traumatic stress disorder situations here, so my advice to every guy out there is this: beware of who you jump into the sack with. It just isn’t worth it most times, and that’s why God gave us five fingers and a palm.
    T he good that’s come out of this? If there is any good whatsoever, it is that I’m grateful to be out of Florida and back in New York, where strangers on the street don’t immediately know all about