And off she went to Spain to participate in the running of the bulls, where she was trampled to death in a dirty street.
The bus lost control just as he was crossing the street, and he was killed on his way to his new gf's house.
Saddened by her poor social decisions, she turned to heroin to deal with the loss of a great friend.
Hi, my name is Candi, and I'm a fictio-holic. Four years ago, a WeHo love went sour, and I made up a hateful story about her to numb the pain. At first it was just for fun, giggling about how her cats died and how I seduced her father. But as later social mishaps happened, I began to rely on fiction use more and more, inventing dark and elaborate stories about the one who hurt me. Their 'trauma' became the neosporin to my wounded heart. What I thought was healing was really manifested escapism.
A moment to qualify and claim my seat as a fictio-holic. Night after night, I lied to friends and family. I told them I had a great day and was gonna cap my evening doing something nourishingly creative. "That's great to hear, Candi. We're so proud of you."
Upon entering my house, I ducked into my bedroom. Shut the door with my shades drawn. Turned on a dull light and got high. Sometimes I would record audio sound bites, dictating their misery. Other times, I would journal and draw pictures. But my favorite vehicle to use is my guitar. Night after night, I injected lyrics that I thought were the solution to my social apocalypse. I knew NO other way to deal, and I eventually began perceiving my stories as true reality. The real world that everyone else operated in was, to me, a distorted hallucination. My fiction abuse worked well for me until I'd run into the subject of my story or song, or hear about them via the gossip of others.
What do you mean they are 'happy?!' I last heard they went blind after a pencil sharpening whoopsie daisy! As the worlds of 'reality' vs reality began to collide, I started having physical reactions. Dry heaving and extreme paranoia in public places became more and more common. To get a quick fix, I would journal morbid wishes on my steering wheel while driving. It became hard for me to leave my house, and I eventually stopped entering certain neighborhoods, venues, and bars. My world became smaller and smaller, and my imaginations louder and darker. I lost friends as a result of these mental movies on replay. Movies no one had ever seen but me.
Today I'm 8 months chemically sober, and one week fictio-sober. It's become too difficult to practice fiction without mind altering additives. As a result, I'm rebuilding bridges and putting out a hand to those that 'were' six feet under or brutally maimed. Rise my zombie friends and former lovers! I want to put a band-aide where I once stabbed you with my imaginary switch blade.
I'm going to try with a pure heart to not use. I want to stay present in a world free of social war faring cartoons. Practicing non fiction is the only way I can be of service to others. This is the path I want to pursue, one day at a time.
I am so grateful to be here and to forgo this new journey. I want to welcome those that are new and wish happy birthday to those celebrating. Thank you for allowing me to be of service.
[clap clap]
