19 February 2001 ~ But I won't mention any names...

I think I killed a guy...

I'm pretty sure I'm a jinx.

First of all, let me tell you a little bit about how Jerry Garcia really died. I killed him, actually, come to think of it. I had just heard my very first Grateful Dead song on the radio. Why had I never heard a Grateful Dead song before? I don't know. I don't have any idea. But I'd just heard "Touch of Grey" for the first time, and thought it was a lovely song, and had taped it off the radio, and put it on a mix tape. It had been running through my head all morning one day in the summer of 1995; my mom picked me up from summer school that day, and I heard on the radio that Jerry Garcia was dead. I'm pretty sure it's my fault.

Let me tell you a little bit about how Stanley Kubrick died. I was just starting to get into his films; I'd seen "Clockwork Orange," and loved it, and decided one day that it was Unofficial Stanley Kubrick day. Mike and I drove all the way to Albuquerque because I had this strange urge to go to a shop there and buy a postcard of an image from "Clockwork Orange." On the way back, we stopped at a video store and rented "Lolita," and I think "2001." I know we rented two of his films, and watched "Lolita" that night. I learned the next morning that he was dead. I'm pretty sure it was my fault.

Let me tell you a little bit about how Dale Earnhardt died.

Yes, Dale Earnhardt. The NASCAR driver I was writing about the other day. WHAT possessed me to write about NASCAR, anyway? And what possessed me to use his name, out of all the NASCAR names I've heard? Why not Ricky Rudd, or Kyle Petty, or Rusty Wallace, or somebody? I know dozens of NASCAR drivers' names, but no, I talked about Dale Earnhardt. A week or two later, who gets killed in a car crash?

I'm entirely convinced that this is my fault.

I heard the news of his death at work this evening. Nobody at work knew of my entry the other day about Dale Earnhardt and NASCAR. I was just as glad; nobody needs to know that the fucking SECOND I talk about somebody, they end up dead. I just went sort of catatonic for the evening and asked for "a nice merlot" before leaving for the night. (Merlots are always "nice." So are cabernets. If you don't order them as "a nice glass of whatever," they don't taste as good or something. Or so I've heard...) Perhaps I'll fall asleep very quickly now, and wake up in the morning realizing it's completely foolish to believe that I killed a guy just because I talked about him. After all, I talk about lots of people. Ronald Reagan didn't die when I wrote about him. David Cronenberg didn't die when I rented a couple of his movies. Hell, Michael Stipe hasn't kicked the bucket yet, and I've gone on about adoring R.E.M. for a long time...

Perhaps I'll just stop while I'm ahead and not mention any more names tonight...

~Helena* the killer

"Did you give her the pill?"
"No."
"Then stop saying you killed her!"
--bad paraphrase from Milan Kundera's "The Farewell Party."