Dear Readers . . .
So, a few months ago I posted a blog about Rose “Casper” Mazzola . . . or Casper Rose . . . or Rosalyn Mazzola . . . or Elliot . . . or whatever fucking name she calls herself these days, and it was about how I believe that she had written a song from her newest ‘Songs From Rehab’ EP called “Lost Boy” about me, and I was able to provide a comprehensive analysis and a complete account for why I believed it to be so.
I was able to back it up with a substantial amount of circumstantial evidence, too.
For if the song wasn’t written about her and I, and our experience together, the coincidence of it being about somebody else’s would be such a freakishly rare anomaly, that one would be more likely to win the Powerball Lottery 15 fuckin’ years in a row, than to write a song with such distinct congruencies to the depraved nightmare circus geek-show that is my life.
Wink & Spit Records
The probability of her finding somebody else for whom she could match her song up with—in exactly the same way as described in the lyrics, and as accurately as it matches up with me—would be so profoundly low, that you could count on it being reiterated verbatim by a group of monkeys, typing at random, in gibberish text, on a typewriter, throughout the incredibly unfathomable abyss of an eternity, before she’d ever be able to find a guy for which she could pretend to have written the song about.
I dissected the lyrics word-for-word explaining how all the things she had sang about in that song, were in one way or another about me, or related to us, and our short lived tumultuous relationship.
Facets of my mental illness–which is Bipolar 1 disorder–and the turmoil that I face daily, as a person who has an extremely difficult time developing, and maintaining healthy non-toxic relationships with other people, and the fear of abandonment I struggle with that sometimes causes me to lash out at the ones I love the most; burning the bridges of reconciliation to smithereens.
As much as I think she’d like to omit the fact that we were once lovers, she has yet to publicly do so. So I wonder how she will react to the fact that I have already taken upon myself to talk about it publicly.
It’s no hidden secret that she has had lots & lots of sex, and with a lots & lots of people, and over a really lengthy period of time. It had even became such a problem for The Distillers, that Brody Dalle mentioned in a magazine interview from Exclaim that was published March 6, 2009, that her heavy drug using and promiscuity was the main reason for her getting the boot from the band.
She is a nymphomaniac, and has an insatiable appetite for sex, and with as many men and boys as she possibly can!
She threw the first punch so-to-speak when she wrote about me on her Instagram page being a creepy stalker who cannot control his violently swinging moods. She even implied that I might harm her daughter if I got the opportunity, which disgusts me and must lead other people to believe that I am some sort of sick monster with a depraved mind.
So what’s the harm in divulging this little fact?
She was the first girl that I’ve ever had sex with, and the first person to ever shoot me up with heroin. The latter seemed to take away all my social awkwardness, and the existential pain that went along with being an extremely shy and introverted soul.
😉Me & Rose😉
Suffice it to say, I fell in love with her, and pretty hard at that.
Rose was a couple of years older than me, and happened to be in a relatively well-known punk band that was set to go on tour soon.
She was unlike any girl I had ever met, and that excited me.
Of course, she happened to be very beautiful too.
And somehow for reasons unbeknownst to me, she took an affinity towards me, and started to become a little flirtatious.
Nobody’d ever been that way with me before, or at least, in such a seductive manner. She seemed to be really good at it too.
I found her to be very alluring in her tight black ripped jeans adorned with dog chains and combat boots. Her skin was pale and bright-white against her jet-black hair and she wore this bright red lip gloss on her big voluptuous lips. She had the whole punk-rock/heroin chíc look going on and it was very enticing.
Her unconventional lifestyle intrigued me, and on one late-summer’s day her, me, and a gay mutual friend of ours (the one that had introduced us to each other), Tommy Goodall, caught the Jefferson Bus to Downtown Detroit to cop dope, which turned out to be quite a remarkable experience.
After procuring what was probably something like a 1/4 gram pack of heroin, we went over to this area next to an abandoned house in an alleyway where some indoor furniture sat strewn about, took a seat, and I watched her shoot up, which was kinda beautiful in a macabre way.
She asked me if I wanted to try it. So without showing any hesitation, and along with urgently needing to belong, I said “Sure.”. .
The Subterranean 