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marcie

a very old friend of mine died sunday night. she od'ed in her apartment alone. no one knows if it was an accident or not. she was 26 and worked at marshall's. i hadn't spoken to her in around 10 years. her name was marcie getleman, but she had changed her name to HOPE when she was 18. we never called her HOPE though.

when we were younger we all wanted to be her. she's the girl i always reference. she was born a legend.

the first girl to get her period, to grow boobs and wear a bra. when we were only going to second base, she was sliding into third. she taught me how to give a blowjob on a banana. she went down on me too. the only girl who ever gave me an orgasm.

she always looked older than us, she looked older than herself even. she was tall and curvy and had white blonde hair and pale skin and blonde freckles and she used to cry and complain that her eyelashes were always banging against her sunglasses.

why do people get reduced to this? to a weird prose poem memory? to a dear diary that people get mad at? that you end up feeling guilty about?

why do people end up working at marshall's? they say oh its temporary i'm just doing it for now i need the money the hours are good blah blah blah. but then they die and they are stuck with that job title forever, even if her parents try to tell the story differently, we all know the truth.

ally went into marshall's a few months ago and she was really stoned with farber, so they put their hooded sweatshirts up and sunglasses on and giggled their way out of the store to avoid seeing her. they were too baked, they couldn't deal.

but what if she had seen them?

3:29 p.m. - 2005-10-04

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history - mystery