Dora: A Headcase Read Online Free PDF

– buncha whacked out kids with their parents’ pharmaceuticals in their pants and flasks in their underwear. We danced so hard every night we baptized ourselves in bruise. Alongside punkers and bikers and strange angry bald guys – no doubt neo-Nazis or some shit. Marlene was always reading books from inside her little money booth, so one night I went in there and we just really hit it off. She was looking at a book of erotic photos from like before 1900 or something. The Charlotte Baker series by Gustave Rejlander. They were weirdly creepy. I adored her immediately.
    She sits across from me and pours herself a scotch. Pours me one as well. I play back once more. This time I catch a bit with my own voice in it:
    “Yeah? Well I once saw my father getting sucked off by Mrs. K. They were in his study. The door was ajar. Saw him pop his cork, basically. She had her skirt up over her big, white, adorable ass. How’s that for family romance?”
    Then Dr. Sig’s voice goes, “ Yes, your witnessing your father’s desire satisfied orally is of great consequence in your narrative.”
    I hear myself go, “Look Doc. It’s not rocket science. It’s a fucking blowjob.”
    My stomach twists. I hate the sound of my voice. “I think he thinks I’m a pussy,” I say to Marlene. Stuffing what’s left of my bacon into my mouth.
    Holding her piece of bacon between her long nailed
fingertips and taking a tantalizing tiny nibble at a time, Marlene says, “How so?”
    “Well I think he thinks I’m actually there for…” I fill my mouth. I hit rewind. I look at the hardwood floor.
    “For what, Lamskotelet?” Marlene takes a sip and I can see she’s savoring the bacon and scotch in her mouth before.
    She.
    Swallows.
    This is among her many pet names for me. Lamskotelet. Lambchop. In German. Marlene’s father and grandfather were Krauts. I’ve learned things you never hear at school about the history of Rwanda. Lamskotelet. I grin like a girl with a mouthful of bacon. I talk with my mouth full. “Sometimes I think he thinks I’m a moron. That I’m a confused depressed little second wave EMO girl. That I’m there at these appointments … you know, for real.”
    Marlene claps her bacon hands with blue lacquered nails and throws her head back and laughs the laugh. She suddenly rips off her platinum and tosses it across the room. The little black-webbed hairnet exposed and weirdly glorious.
    “I have the perfect books for you today!” She announces, her hands clasped in front of her face like Christmas, and she sashays away to the shelves.
    I busy myself rewinding to a different moment in the day’s recording. Hoping for a humdinger. Hoping to drown out my own voice.
    I’m making a mix.
    Dr. Sig’s voice with cut-ins of Bowie, Lou Reed, Black Flag, Richard Hell, the Adverts, X, and this hilarious bit with Elliott Smith up against Dr. Sig’s discussion of suicidal impulses. If all goes well I’ll have a mix ready by the xxx-mass rave at The Kasbah. At full decibel, it oughta be one helluvah show.
    When she returns, Marlene has what looks like two one-hundred-year old at least ten-by-twelve dark red cloth cover beauts. She hands them to me. They’re heavy. Not like books now.
I can feel my biceps while I hold them. My heart races. Nothing is better than these old books in Marlene’s loft. Well, almost nothing. I place them on the table. They smell like dirt and old. They look like something before capitalism. Not disposable. Not fast. Nothing about Barnes & Noble. I look down at the titles and screw my face up.
    Fisiologia del Dolore . Fisiologia dell’Amore .
    “What do they say?” I say.
    “ Physiology of Pain . 1880. And this one,” she pets the other as if it is beloved, “ Physiology of ,” she pauses and closes her eyes, “ Love . 1896.”
    I stare at the author’s name and want to eat it with my bacon and scotch: “Mantegazza,” I say, shooting for not American mouthed.
    “Mantegazza,” Marlene