I’m in total and complete denial. Honestly, I don’t know what that feeling is, please stop. For sure, it can’t be love. I don’t know what love is and I’ll be damned if I ever, ever, find out. I’m quite sure I don’t. I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t know! Damnit, of course I know I just don’t have the (guts) need to say it. So much work, so little time, my poor grades. I’m going to die. Curses.
No, really, no, really. I mean, god, that was so good, that was so, so, so, so, so good. Tokyo Godfathers, fucking brilliant. Fucking brilliant.
I like him, I don’t, I don’t know! Goddamnit, goddamnit, do I actually have some sort of disorder I’m really good at suppressing. I don’t sleep anymore, or, I sleep during the day, is that some sort of a problem? I need to get my labs done. I’m not getting any of it done. Hold.
Right, so, yeah. What do I have to do…
Math, where is that anyway?
Physics, let’s break this down…ahaha…
Labs
Resub (where the hell is your test?! Ugh!)
Free resub work (there are always the answers online, goddamn my conscience)
Right, so aside from that…
English essay (where the hell is THAT slip of paper, now?)
Really, I think I’m going insane. Or at least I want to, so I have an excuse for the sorry way my sad, dear little life turned out. I mean, if I do get hit by a truck, all the better! I’d have a seriously entertaining excuse and a reason to hate (or, love, depending on the situation) Someone’s guts!
I hate everything about everything, but in a nice way.
I don’t want to die, not really, but it’d be nice
A lot of things are nice but really aren’t.
Utterly despicable, that’s what it is.
The way she looked at him, there was something to all of it, he just didn’t know what. The way she tilted her head back ever so slightly to look at him across the room, over the rim of her spectacles, there was something, something so small and so fragile and so tormenting about it all; he wanted to cry. He retreated to his work, but his synapses fired like machineguns, his mind in total frenzy, fireworks going off in his head. He couldn’t read words. The letters, the numbers, the little charts and graphs, the newsprint became a stage for an alphabet troupe that paraded across his vision. Dancing, chanting, the little bastards, a violent part of him suddenly interrupted, he wanted to nip them with tweezers off the page, watching them squirm as he dropped them into vats of acid, watching them die, their little pip squeak voices drowned out by his maniacal laughter. And, as sudden as his splurge of violence and insanity came, it left and he left looking at her, over the edge of his paper, over the large blocky headlines at her, looking at him over the rim of her glasses. He really didn’t understand anymore, why he’s so inept and so scared and so alone. He knew the feeling quite well, of a dark empty room, of your own breathing, of nothing, no one but yourself, coming into your own hand and hearing you own raspy breath against the bed sheets and somehow you feel less and less fulfilled each time. He didn’t even know her name. Still, he maintained that there was something to all of it and he couldn’t shake it, like the guy at the pizzeria, that short little kid without a nametag, like how he’d shake the sugar over the pastries and it’d stick, it’d stick alright. She stuck, stuck like a stamp after you lick it and you have that strange, damn strange, taste of paste and whatever else in your mouth. People can taste the difference? Skittles on your postage stamp, is that what it is? She gave him disturbing chills reminiscent of licking stamps? Is he really that sick and odd, or is it the skittles bit? Perhaps, hopefully, most definitely (not) it’s the skittles bit. She was his rainbow in a world without color. That’s so cheesy, but is that really what that is? As simple, as simple and as wonderful as that, rainbows and color and the world, his world, over the newspaper and her world, over her glasses, colliding in some monstrous wreckage of an accidental glance. He’s dreaming a ludicrous dream and god, he doesn’t want to wake up. Sometimes he has to and that’s the sad part, he wants to cling so desperately to everything because he has that fear, that fear of loosing everything, all in one day. It’ll never happen, but, you know, he’s scared. He stared back and she stared back and then she looked away. Does she know he’s staring, does she know what he’s thinking? A mind reader? Can she see inside his fucked up little head? Poking in there with her mesmerizing eyes, examining, maybe even laughing at his little fantasies and worries and oh, how her eyes, her eyes, her eyes carried that flickering look, what was it? What was it that pained him so, that momentary glance, that chance just waiting, what was it? It’s still there, but it’s gone. It’s like an empty egg shell with the little bits of egg white still sitting in the bottom. Is that all there is? God, sometimes, sometimes he wished he were blind. And then he’d take it back, quickly, very quickly. All of it, he’d take all of it back. Crumple it up, in a tiny, tiny, tiny (densely packed) ball of everything and pitch it, like he’s in the major leagues, and hopes to god someone hits it far, far, far, far away. But he can’t bat and pitch at the same time, can he? So, he’s dishing out his shit to someone else all over again. No one wants more shit than they already have and his shit is just demented. She looked up again, but not at him. Was he reading too much into that? That little something was perhaps a trick, his own imagination, sick with desperation and need created that mellifluous moment of pure ecstasy in his head. He has a disorder, he’s sure of it. And then he bends back down into economics and his paper and the little dancing letters and how he’d kill them and he’s back in there again, with all that crap. It’s all written right there as the letters rearranged themselves. Track and field star in high school, not really. Failure at life star in high school, probably, because everyone’s a star athlete in high school and they don’t grow up to mean much. What happened anyway? Too many little glances from women he never had a chance with.
Goddamn.