randomness – Page 2

I talked to him on online and then I freaked out and died.

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.

Yet another break, and I miss him (tragically) but not quite

I miss him because he dual boots ubuntu, do you know how ridiculous that is? I think I’m going insane. I am totally going insane. This project, the rest of my work, die! Things that like that aren’t usually good for me. It’s actually pretty bad for me. I mean, what the hell is this? It’s been fine, just fine for like a week. I haven’t even given him that much thought, until now. I mean, it’s fucking normal! UNTIL NOW! Goddamn, goddamn, goddamn. Goddamn. I told you this would happen. Do you miss him, or not? What is it that you miss? He does have a good name, oh, fucking hell. FUCKING HELL. Shut up, go away, you’re wasting time. I am wasting time. My god, my god, my god, I’m having this tragic moment of something like mental masturbation, but it’s slightly painful and slightly, mentally, insanely masochistic, almost, ooops, spelled that wrong. My dear god, please, please, please shoot me. Ever realize you have a thing for repeating words? Yes, Yes, well, now I do! Oh my dear Jesus, GOD, good lord, I’m going to die. Kill me, please, please, please, please. My god, why, why do I like him? I have no fucking idea. He probably doesn’t even care about me, which is what happens in the end anyway. But damnit, he’s blond! I meet these people and all of these people and I’m going to absolutely kill myself. I hope the other one, him, he stays. I hope he does. Or at least, I get to see him again, because he’s pleasantly blond as well. MY GOD DAMN DAMN DAMN DAMN DAMN DAMN DAMN THE RUSSIAN REVOLUTION TO HELL!!! MY FUCKING GOD! SHIT! SHIT! SHIT! SHIT! SHUT UP AND STOP TALKING TO YOURSELF OVER A KEYBOARD! I WANT RICKY MEYER! JUST SHUT UP! SHUT UP! THAT SENTENCE NEVER HAPPENED! NEVER! GO AWAY GO AWAY! SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP! UGH!!! DIE!! DIE DIE DIE DIE DIE DIE DIE DIE DIE DIE DIE DIE DIE DIE DIE DIE DIE DIE DFINE DON’T DIE! EVIL EVIL EVIL EVIL EVIL EVIL EVIL EVIL EVIL EVIL EVIL EVIL! DIE DIE DIE DIE FINE FINE FINE FIIINEEE! DAMN BITCHES! MORONS! I HATE EVERYTHING THIS IS GENERALLY WHAT HAPPENS WHAT I GET DISTRACTED AND DON’T DO MY WORK! I DIG MYSELF INTO THESE TINY LITTLE HOLES AND DIE! IN THE TINY LITTLE HOLES! WITH TOO MUCH WORK! I FEEL LIKE PATRICK! THE MOTHERFUCKING STARFISH. OMFG die. Please? Just go away. Please and never come back.

Ate too much….

I think, I found the perfect song. I mean, it’s an old song, it’s an old Linkin Park song. First song I heard by them, I think, in a Cardcaptor Sakura anime music video. Maybe, their first hit? First single? Who knows, who cares? I know I don’t. But it’s a really good. In the End.

Viggo Mortensen, or however you spell his last name, is incredibly…hot. Everything he does, everything he says, touches, looks at, just his presence on my TV screen makes me want to scream and die. He has such a strange look, such a wonderfully dangerous and demented? Scary? Look in his eyes. It makes me want to…well, alright.

I don’t feel like explaining that whole song thing. I mean, if you know me, I suppose, and you’ve heard the song, you’d understand. But, then, the point of keeping a dairy, blog, journal thing, is to explain such random references and all my feelings so that one day when I look back at the awful mess that is, was and will be my life, I’d understand. But, really, I’m too damn lazy.

I like him, a little, shut the hell up already! Stop bothering! Life is tormenting. I want to kill PEOPLE!!! WITH SHOTGUNS!! RIFLES!!! PISTOLS!!! (Maybe I just want to play Halo.) I don’t, I have, I feel like a stuffed chicken, so bloated, so big, so roasted and juicy and delicious…and I’m not exactly hungry, but food references get me. I, I don’t know anymore.

What the fuck? WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS SUPPOSED TO MEAN YOU BITCHES!?!?!? Nature is a bitch. Life is a bitch, what isn’t a bitch? C’mon, what the fuck is wrong with you people? I just wanted to play MapleStory! MAPLE FUCKING STORY!! IT’S A DAMN KOREAN MASSIVE MULTIPLAYER! GIVE ME A FUCKING BREAK EVERY ONCE IN A FUCKING WHILE YOU STUPID DIPSHIT MORONS!!!

Alright, I think, I think, I think, I might be alright, I might, I might, I might…not. I’m not exactly crazy, hormonally imbalanced, confused, possibly insane? ]

I can’t sing at all, but that’s the fun part.

I really should write that novel. I’m awkwardly inspired. It’s strange.

I need to clear my head. Really, that Buddhist thing might actually work out for me in the end. I’m always, constantly in denial. Admitting things to myself is hard, it’s painful even.

Yeah, him, what a guy. Heh, god, why the fuck do I get mixed up with these people? What did I do to deserve the pain and pleasure of knowing these fine souls, who, otherwise, would have been just fucking fine without me and I would’ve been equally fine without ever knowing. ANY OF THEM!

Spare me, please? Pretty please? Be my cherry on top?

Scream. Loud. Clear. And hopes someone hears you. Yeah, hope, not much of that going around. Take a dive off that cliff, not doing you any good just standing around. Flapping cloth in the wind, futile attempts to fly, they’re not very good wings. Enjoy it, while you’re there. The sharp rocks below, forget them. Live in the moment, moment of free fall, give yourself to gravity. Forget how cold the water is below, forget how much it’s going to hurt, in fact, it’s not going to hurt at all. Don’t regret your decision, a bullet to the head, poison? Nothing as good as running off a cliff with a running start, arms flailing and hoping, that maybe, maybe, you’ll miss. There it is again, hope. Motherfucking thing.

Are you just a little angry on the inside?

Oh, that was a good scene. That was ridiculously hot. God. Heh.

Yeah, some people are just creepy. But, he’s…okay. I guess, because I’ve been sitting next to him for a really long time. Well, it’s alright.

I’m over him, totally, no way. But, I’m trying really hard, but I see him and then I forget all my ranting and raving and all my purpose and all that…work. Trying to forget him is hard. It’s…rather….painful. Know that?

He wakes three hours early anyway, the pills weren’t that helpful. He sits there for a while, staring at his toes, the little hairs sticking up on his toes, his floor, the wood panels on his floor, the curves, twists, valleys and dips in the floor, his floor. It’s dark outside, streetlights burn amber squares of his window on the ceiling, cars pass occasionally. It’s cold, the elastic waistband of his boxers was uncomfortable, he pulls on them with a snap.

Little Korean boys break my heart. Ha.

“Take this, really, I insist, take this.” He presses a sheet of paper in her hand. “It’ll help, I swear.”

I really think it’s a sign from God, that I can’t play MapleStory. Maybe that’s how bad it is for me. But then again, it just might be my horrible computer.

I miss everyone and no one at the same time, it’s really freaking me out. Everything freaks me out, whoever said that made an excellent observation.

Cheesy dance music makes me happy on the inside, every once in a while.

I THINK I’M GOING CRAZY

I’m such a fucking hypocrite. I think, I am, oh my dear god, I’m turning to one of them, with problems and the need to talk. I THINK I AM REALLY STRESSED. IT IS WEIRD.

Breathe woman, breathe. And I think I just broke my computer table chair.

No reservations for what he says, I suppose, is the way to describe that particular personality. A willingness, maybe too much so, to express his ideas, something along those lines.

A…Royai drabble? Perhaps, I’m trying that 100 theme thing. Here goes.

They have really catchy song titles, Sleep Now In the Fire, Calm like a Bomb and what not.

MY CURE!! FOO FIGHTERS!!! Yessss, I’m saved. Please win a grammy.

Or maybe, maybe, a Royai fanfic. Not a oneshot, but a decent multi-chapter thing. I’ve got to think. I really like that scene though, Eastern Promises, that was a decent movie.

Laine’s seen him twice, sitting in the lunchroom, in a little corner, bulky headphones glued to his ears, eyes tracing patterns on the tiled floor, dressed in black with that faded blue messenger bag. He never looked up to meet her gaze, to catch her in the act, so she stared, uninhibited, day after day. She’d catch sight of him, corner of her eye, as she walks with her tray. The fruit cup sloshes as she drops the Styrofoam plate on the table. She takes on last look and then sits.

“I can’t believe he did that.” Madison whines, her blonde curls bouncing, pouting, she stuffs a forkful of broccoli in her mouth. Eyelashes curling upwards, majestically defying gravity, a pinkish tint above her vacant, blue irises, the hollowness of her eyes, Laine wonders just exactly how much of Madison is behind those eyes, those perfectly painted, trimmed and processed eyes. How much beauty in that Garden of Eden, the perfect aquiline nose, the plumped lips smeared with glitter, and the

“Did what?” She asks with feigned interest. She peels back the tab on a fruit cup, licking the juice off her thumb, all the while keeping an eye on him, headphone boy she’s labeled him.

“You know,” Madison gesticulates with her plastic spork, drawing circles in the air, “I told you, like,” a pause, she’s contemplating, “yesterday. Like, yesterday.”

Laine thinks for a moment, sometimes she just stops listening to Madison. Rude, she knows, but. It’s the same story every time, insert name here. “Oh, that.”

Okay, okay, I’m done, the more I think about what I’m going to write next, the more I think of Mean Girls, the more I think of Lindsay Lohan, the more I think of how boring, how trite, how perfectly delirious and condemning high school life actually is. Oh god, please kill me.

Foo Fighters, oh god, I love you guys.

There was something suffocating about the city, something stagnant, that somehow with each breath, there was less and less air, less and less time, less and less space left on this earth. It were as if the entire city was plastered in gray, varying shades of gray, from rooftops to shallow puddles and alleyways,

“Do you,” he begins, slow, simple, steady, walking towards her across the empty room, blue moonlight spilling across the floor. He catches her lower waist in one arm and slips a lock of her auburn hair behind her ear. And then, he whispers.

I’m also sick and tired of the reality of war. Jesus, I know it’s bad, books say it’s bad, the pictures say it’s bad. I’m through, I’m done with hearing that it’s bad!

Speaking of which, I ought to write that thing…

Lieutenant Saxon, something, I guess. Heh. Oh god, more Joan Crawford. She is terribly unattractive.

So, there was this little girl, with curls that bounce up and down and up and down when she walked, tied up with some disproportionately large pink bows that bounced with her curls. All dolled up in that lacy dress of hers, with those shiny white shoes similarly adorned with pink bows on the top, she’d skip, hop and walk up and down that block. The creepiest thing is, no one else ever saw her. Must’ve been such a bitch to walk with those damn curls.

Murderous intent, much?

Oh god, for the love of God, why is everything so cheesy, so simple? So open and shut and done with. GOD!!! DAMNNNNNIIIITT!!! Stupid morons.

Dresden Dolls concert was amazing, I think I’m in love with the drummer…

So, my terrible friend, it’s 2008. Terrible, terrible, you little thing. I’m going to miss you, sweet, miss you terribly. Farewell.

Kiss me, you foolish fool, do it, uh oh, now, some day soon, I’ll find you one, one, maybe two. Find me, when the time comes and take me with you. Don’t you dare leave me.

Scream, scream till your voice is hoarse, long and loud, feel the vibrations in the air, the molecules bouncing against each other in frenzy, feel it, feel them, feel yourself, the vibrations in your rib cage, resonance.

It’s always a pronoun, it’s never a name, it’s rarely even a person, its always just him. Who is him? He takes on as many roles as he needs to. He’s one today and two tomorrow, three in a week, fifteen next year. I love him, though, I think, I’m always thinking, never sure.

He’s amazing, though, honestly, it was mesmeric. It was like watching some god, some mythic god, half naked, sitting on the pedestal, each muscle sculpted perfectly, tensing, relaxing beneath the skin. And his, and his hair, he has the most amazing hair. It’s perfect in that light, and it’s like nothing I’ve seen before, it’s vaporous, almost, curling up at the ends, like angels, like, it is amazing, beyond comprehension. And he’s just amazing, unforgettable, gorgeous, like some porcelain doll, some mythical god, etched in porcelain, fragile and perfect. Marry me, take me. Please.

The sizzle of flesh in fire, burling, curling like paper, turning black, scattering ashes to the wind, cremation of my soul, my poor self, my poor shell, holding a candle, the flame flickering beneath the veneer of who I am, burn, burn in the fire, ferocious fires of the end, crackle.

It sounds extraordinary. Like it should be.

Resolve, resolve, resolute, resolute, resolution: do I have any? Chalk on the board, glass on the floor, cream in the cupboard, paper in the wicker basket, heart on sleeves, pieces in the bowl, forks in bath, squeaky ducky lucky, a coin-operated boy with a pretty coin-operated voice, straight and to the point. Do love me, please, two seconds in the shower, three minutes in bed, forever and ever, in a loop, just play it back for me, beat for beat, note for note, vibration for vibration, every singly moment, play it back. I’ll listen to each second over and over again just to hear you, just to feel you, a little closer, a little nearer. Loosing my senses, like I had any to begin with, do love me. Love me like no tomorrow, right now. Tomorrow may never come, it probably won’t ever come, leave it to me now, leave me now. No, no, no, bad time, good time to die, good time to die a little on the inside, the caverns of my inner walls of my exterior castle, mighty fine thing you have there. Wings, wings, yes, yes, watch me, just watch me. You just watch me, for a second I thought you left. So, so, so, so, what the hell. Oiy, oiy, ooh, hear you moan, in my little circular mind, my my my my my, all underlined red. Scoped, sniped, shoot me from my badside, if you want a straight lie, this is a good time. I want a straight lie, please, not curved. That’d kill me. Flailing like a fish out of water, flap, flap, what else can I do, lying on my side, choking on oxygen I don’t need, choking on you, thoughts of your little things, and thoughts, and key strokes and pin drop notes and perks and quirks and quarks. Choking, for a second, I thought I’d die, but I guess not. Gash, scar, ouch, help, no, never.

That was loud. Love me. Just the same as you would any other day, a little or a lot, any less or anymore, love me just the same.

Stay, stay a little while…

“Hey,” a tired, soft greeting, she slips into the sofa, cotton pajamas frictionless against her pale, milky skin. Her creamy hair falling to one side, she cocks her head to look at him.

“Hey,” he replies.

Sometimes I think about him, too. It’s weird that. You stupid bastard, you. Goddamn you, you’re kind of charming sometimes, only sometimes. And I miss sitting next to you, you make class bearable. Now, that’s taking it too far.

I liked that sword of hers. She swung it with such ease and grace, it was elegant. I liked that show, I really did. It was so warm and so…warm.

I smell like that perfume grandmother sends from China, from the depth of some murky pool, perfume to cover the stench of death. Ceaseless reaper of souls, take mine, will you?

Oh god, oh god, oh god. OH GOD!

Were you thinking what I was thinking?

“Take my hand, stay with me a little while, stay right here with me.” He took her hands, forehead against hers, looking at her, pleading, those eyes of his. A gentle wind rustles the leaves, billowing across the endless plains of grass. Was he just lonely? High above the shimmering stars glittered and danced, across the ebony halls of space, the empty of the sky, the silent oceans of waves upon waves of light, stretching from the end of the universe to another, the enormity in which he was only a small part, a small part of a bigger whole. He pleads. “Stay. Stay right here.”

She nods, she nods, she nods, she will stay, “I will stay.” She assures him, gripping his hand tighter, she will stay. Because she wants to, for his sake? Because she wants. She’s staying, because she wants to. She wants to, she wants to be here, right here, with him, under the weight of a dying world, under the weight of her own foolishness, the weight of everything in her little world, the weight of it all crashing down, for him, for him, those pleading eyes, those hollow eyes. They need to be filled, like a mold, like a mold and she’ll pour herself in, fill them, stay with him.

“I will stay.” And the sadness, sweetest smile creeps across his lips, and maybe, maybe he’s found happiness. Only after knowing true despair will one know true happiness. The emptiness at the bottom of that well, that deep, abysmal well, that was his, that was his. What did he drop down there, what did he give, what did he give to be apart of this world, what did he give that he can’t get back now? He grapples, reaches, searches and found her hand, her hand. And as he stands, here, there, here and there, under the blue blanket of the sky, the eerie quiet and echoing love of her words, he smiles, smiles to himself. He’s found it. No, no, she found it for him, reached down that well and emerged, radiant, wet, and in her hands, she’s found it, found what he once lost. Himself? Maybe, maybe a chipped self.

My eyes are itchy, dry? Tired? I sleep, I sleep now. Finally, it seems, I sleep.

Time flies; did you ever love me?

Time flies, I barely remember a thing. How long has it been? He checks his watch, three hours, maybe four, maybe a lifetime. It’s a bit weird, like a half eaten bowl of green grapes, firm, round, earthy, the little stubs where grapes should, and used, to be, sticking up and out like the inside of your lungs. It’s all a bit weird.

Tell me something, she says, lips moving, plump, rosy, smeared with red, blood filling in the crinkles, lipstick. The deteriorating sweetness of her skin, he tastes the bitter perfume, hovering just above her face he watches her speak, the formation of her words, the rise and fall of her chest beneath his, raw, smooth and dead. A streak of amber in the darkness, her wrists pinned above her head, his fingers wrapped around them like rope in a discombobulated knot. Light from the hallway interrupts the bed sheets, pierces the partition in her hair, the valley between her breasts, the hairs running down her left thigh. His fringes tickle her face, his breath mingling with hers in a twisted ritual ceremony, a beat in the musky air of the room, reverberating from wall to wall. A fire in her eyes burns past him, a desire, a lust, for the corrosive acid of his response. His hips straddle her waist, she’s strangely submissive. One last look, one last breath and he takes her, drinking the blood from her lips, the wetness of her mouth, her tongue, her soft ovals crushed against his broad chest, bare and firm. She moans a little, he edges in closer, feeling, searching for her little heart, exposed, open, drawing closer to the flame, anticipating the pain.

Did you ever love me?

12:25 AM

I’m just a little bit pathetic, aren’t I?

Yeah, it’s a bit crazy, just like that. I can still hear it, the soft, melodious sound of his voice. Words, words I have none and never will.

I think I’m in love with you. It might’ve just all started out as some sick joke I played on myself, but at some point, some random point, I might’ve actually fallen in love with you. Will you take me seriously if I tell you? Judging from that personality of yours (you’re such a jerk sometimes, thought I should tell you), you’ll probably just laugh at me. Or, maybe, seeing how you do this a lot, raise an eyebrow and squint at me, and, even more probable, you’ll think that I’m lying. I might be. I honestly might be lying, to you (if I ever told you), to myself (I do so everyday) about being in love with you. But sometimes, I can’t help it. Your smile, that unfortunate smile of yours, is permanently engraved in my mind, with a damn blowtorch. And it’s not going away. I see it, a lot, in my head, I play back seconds, seconds of time we spent together, seconds, seconds in a day, over and over and over in my head, to make the time seem longer. Is that cheesy? Was that bit, that whole bit, two or three lines long bit, a little too cheesy? I thought so, too. It’s all just horrible, it’s horrible, you’re horrible, and I’m just a fat piece of lard, sitting here, confessing my love to moveable type, computer screen and Microsoft word.

I love you. Hear me. Listen to me. Please don’t laugh at me.

Speech and Debate makes me emo….

So, honestly, what is it all about? Time like this, you gotta think to yourself it’s all about the people. But, really, that’s a tragic lie, isn’t it? The more you say to yourself, the worse it gets because it’s all about getting ahead. Even if it’s just forensics tournament, really, I don’t know anymore. I don’t want anything anymore. I just want an answer, an understanding. Then, I’m done, I’m good, I’m over with it and I can get out of here, move on. I’m trapped, seemingly, by my own inabilities to do anything. Sad, but the truth.

Yeah, and I’m in love with a totally random kid, I don’t even know about love is. It’s not a stupid question, it’s a valid question because I don’t know and I want to. It’s snowing outside, I have more than a day’s worth of anime sitting on my desktop, I’m tired of everything. Sometimes I think I’m in love with him, too. That dance, when he ends up mouthing the words to some Kanye West song, in his silly suit, skips a beat and I think I’m in love with him, too.

So, honestly, what is it all about?

Anyone? Someone? Hello? Please, don’t just leave me hanging.

I need ya right now. I’ve been needing you for a while. Why is everything so convoluted.

Alright, since we’re here, I don’t like her that much either. She has bad breath occasionally, but there are redeemable features and they outweigh the other ones. I end up hating everyone, except when I’m too blind to see the truth. Too…caught up in something to really see what’s going on. I wonder if he likes me, I highly doubt it. I’m going to pitch myself off a roof regardless of how he feels, either in despair or euphoria, but I’m going to die anyways. Aren’t we all? I cut class for him, silly bastard, you better like me back, you better.

I can’t wait much longer. Man, I’ve waiting all night now, that’s how long I’ve on ya. Work it hard, lalalala

I play songs on loop, I don’t know why. So does my mother, she puts four tracks of the same song and loops and loops. Life is a loop, endless loop, perfect continuity, it’s almost freakish. Almost, but not quite.

Never over.

That’s worse. It really is never over. I want him to like me, so, so, so, so much. And he probably doesn’t. I’m use to it, of course I am. Ugh, fucking things. Everything, everything feels like they’re trying to kill me.

Fat kid, Adam? Sat next to me in OI finals, his piece was about a bunch of Vietnam things. “Muthafucker.” Something like.

Damn they don’t make ‘em like this anymore.

Bow in the presence of greatness.

You should be honored by my lateness.

Something like that and he laughs, hard, at Alvin’s big breasted babe joke. I thought it was funny, too. I wonder, I wonder, who all these people really are. 10:44, 1944. I’, silly, silly. Fuck Ms. Dunkel. First name I mentioned. I don’t want to work for her, she’s annoying. I don’t even remember why I hated.

She’ll do anything for the limelight.

Bonus for anyone who can figure out the song.

I need you to hurry up now. (Oh!)

Mouthing the words to the song, hands in his pockets, glasses, the way he holds himself, beige jacket, red tie against blue shirt, freshman. He’ll be really freaked out if he knew I write about him, sometimes, if he knew I think about him, sometimes.

The other one? I really think I might be in love with the other one. I hate the whole you have your definition of love thing. What is love? I’m fucking scared of not knowing. But, for what it’s worth, I think I’m in love with the other one. He’d just look at me funny, raise an eyebrow, squint his eyes and call me a liar. I did cut class for him, I didn’t lie to him. I think he just stays to play checkers or whatever it is he plays and not really for me. But, whatever, I love sarcasm. I love him. Whatever, whatever, why am I so silly. I hate being a teenager, goddamn hormones. Goddamn everything. Yeah, I like him. His skin is so nice, so smooth, so soft, such a shade of purity, it’s strange. It’s snowing outside. I miss him, almost, but not quite. Almost, sometimes I just want to see him, have him talk to me. He’s not a moron, no, no, not to me, he’s my, cheesy as it sounds, knight. Something like that, he’s the thing that rescues me from the banal world, the world that swallowed me whole and I’m like what’s his name, Pinocchio? Whoever trapped in that whale, what am I doing? What the hell am I doing in Omaha.? I’ll see him on Monday.

God put you in front of me

A thousand you’s only one of me

I’ll do anything for a blonde dyke

I’ll do anything for a, a…well, you know.

I can’t wait much longer. I can’t get much wronger.

It’s not even a word, but I suppose, it fits, right? I can’t spell rhyme which makes more sense than fits. Work it, work it, never over….

Yeah, yeah, god, I want to kiss him. I love pronouns, the ambiguity. Heh, oh well.

HURRY UP NOW I CAN’T WAIT MUCH LONGER

Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah……………..About that.

I hate high school. I hate everything. I hate knowing. Ignorance is bliss. Rewind, play my life back, seven years and I’m already sick and tired of my existence. Laugh, laugh long and hard and I’m going back to school on Monday. Test on Tuesday, Mr. Kalish’s wife had a baby.

Pigeon on my window sill, looking in, at me, it’s weird. He twitches and moves, flies, away. It’s still snowing, sheets after sheet after sheet of white, coating, falling, snowing.

T-t-that don’t kill me.

Only makes me stronger.

Alright, I’ve got names….now what am I going to write about?

“Fuck.”

“What?”

“My lighter, I lost my lighter.”

God, this is totally random. Hello? Hello? Is anyone here? Anyone here at all? No? Why am I always alone? Maybe it’s a good thing, a good thing to be alone, all the time, everywhere I go, every day, every week, every month, year, decade, century, millennium, eon, epoch, each and every time. I’m but a speck of dust, drifting in random directions, waiting, taken, through and flung across the streams of time. Oh, but I’m patient, I wait, I wait for someone to notice me, I wait eternities at a time for but the small trace of recognition. I float through the world like a dream, a grain of sand, sandman’s creation, I drift, I wander, I am. I just am. It’s hard to just be, but sometimes it’s hard not to be. It’s harder to desist, to exit, to leave, to stop, to take a step out of the endless river, the take a step back, look across the span of the world and wandered what it is that’s taken so long.

“Shit happens and no one ever knows why. It’s, to be quite honest with you, just plain annoying.” He remarks shoving half a bagel, covered in butter, into his mouth. “I mean, something goes wrong and it’s ‘Shit happens.’” Another bite, another gulp, he continues, he has a tenacity for speaking, ranting, rather. “Why the hell does shit always happen? Doesn’t anyone ever have a good answer, a good goddamn explanation for their fucking problems?” He also has a tenacity for cursing, he punches the elevator button, hard. The bagel is gone, brown paper bag dotted with translucent spots of oil crumpled and thrown haphazardly over his shoulder into a trash can. His shoe taps against the linoleum floor impatiently, pat, pat, pat, pat, hum, ding, the elevator arrives. He keeps talking, brushing past the mob pouring forth from the elevator, like water flowing from a broken dam, “I mean, Jesus, it ain’t my fucking fault it happened, okay? You know what I mean? How the hell, how the hell was I supposed to know?”

A sharp intake of breath, a lull, silence, his companion turns to him, surprised at the pause. Angry, livid, blue eyes peeking out from under black bangs met the quizzical expression on his friend’s face, wine red eyes amused and expectant. “Are you quite finished, Rhys?” The other male asked, voice steady, calm, cold if need be, but at the moment was a mix of warm summer air and clear blue skies.

“Oh,” Rhys replied in an equally sarcastic tone, “I have yet to begin, Frey.”

Rewrite, the song and the process

“Tell me something,” he began, tired as he slumped into soft cushions of the sofa, “tell me something. What happened to orange juice in the refrigerator?”

He had fallen asleep at the table again and woke up with a strange imprint on his cheek in the shape of his wristwatch. He blinked twice, extended his arms and pushed himself off the desk. Littered with sheets of paper covered in illegible scribbles, gum wrappers, coffee cups, eraser shavings, broken lead, paper clips and neon yellow sticky notes, loose change, rubber bands, a staple, a broken pencil sharpener that refused to be fixed, a cellular phone manual, scotch tape, used forks and crumpled napkins, like a clogged artery, Manhattan traffic in the morning, a few slivers of wood crept through the clutter. His computer monitor sat like the Acropolis, grand, dominating and gleaming above the wasteland of office supplies. Speakers guarded the electronic sanctuary like armor clad warriors. The digital clock showered greenish light across the tabletop, grabbing the clock like a head of lettuce, his mind registered two thirty.

“Two thirty,” he groaned, voice hoarse from sleep, his throat itched as if they were covered in cobwebs. Coughed twice in an attempt to find comfort, he tasted

He had no intention of moving. Just sitting there, hands tucked into the pockets of his overcoat, legs sprawled over the wooden bench, onto the sidewalk, head leaning back against the splintered, chipped paint, grey eyes reflecting a greyer sky. One hand laid upturned, a cigarette caught between the index and middle fingers, smoke lifting from the small, glowing button of burning tobacco. The wind toyed with his hair, each individual strand a thin, clear wire. He brought the cigarette slowly to his lips, cold and hungry, he inhaled. The thing was going to kill him one day, but right now, he could care less.

Protective parents corralled their children around him, strollers swerving to avoid the pollution, the disease that seeped from his cloth, his cigarette, the very pores of his skin. Slowly Manhattan traffic dawdled by, taxis blaring, buses wheezing, bicycles jingling, small children crying and the distant show of wings fluttering. Grey dripped from the sky like rain, like the juice from a crushed pomegranate, the malicious, sweet juice racing down the curves of his fingers, his wrist, his arm. Sticky. The quiet grey muted the city, jamming the cogwheels, the machinery, slowing, silencing, chilling, questioning and inviting.

A gust of wind brought him back to life, tediously he raised his head, neck bent at a strange angle and surveyed the almost empty park before him. Through the mesh of the chain link fence, the jungle gyms and slides painted in dull yellow and red, through the benches and chess tables, the swings and the water fountain, the elderly couple cutting across the park at a forty something degree angle, through his opaque eyes, each jarring crack of grey radiating from the black abyss of his pupils, he caught a glimpse of a viciously maroon scarf. The maroon scarf, flailing like a fish out of water, sharp, demanding, almost painful, announcing itself to the grey, grey world, around the neck of a woman. A noose?

He sat up, alert, the maroon tickled his senses, alluring and distant, he felt bovine. He dropped the cigarette, left it burning, dieing on the sidewalk, pushed himself gingerly off the bench, not sure what force is compelling him to move. The scarf, the scarf fluttering, taunting, he ran, ran across the grey park, hopping over the chess tables, the benches, and to the edge of the road. Panting, the friction of time slowed him to a stop, a burst of wind swept back his hair, the street light blinked red. Across the zebra stripes stood the woman, maroon scarf wrapped around her neck, hands tucked into the pockets of her beige coat, the hemline of her skirt ending shortly after, her boots stopped at her ankles leaving the rest of her legs bare. He suddenly had the urge to touch her skin, her pale, smooth skin, cold from the wind, naked and exposed like a ripe peach about to burst.

She stepped onto the street, the light still red. Her heels clicked like needles across the icy expanse of concrete, her eyes fixed on him and nothing else. He echoed her movements, walking towards her. She stopped inches from his face, so close he could smell faintly the ocean breeze drifting from the ends of her hair, percolating through her cloth.

Mondays are terrible…

Monday morning, woke up with a headache, a jarring pain in his back and a slight toothache, one of his molars, maybe. The apartment was cold, icy air seeped between the cracks, percolating through the frosted windows and creaking floorboards, their silent, delicate fingers tugging hungrily at his skin as he lumbered to the bathroom. Chipped tiles and a malfunctioning toilet he’s been trying to fix for ages, a tiny tub and aged shower curtains that were, at one point, white adorned his lonely bathroom. A single toothbrush sat in a cup, he turned the hot water on, metallic knob painfully cold to the touch, sent a shiver down his spin, digging beneath the shirt he slept in and his boxers.

He’s bound by company regulations to the same white, collared shirt, the same fading red tie, the same worn and beleaguered suit, the same listless shoes, the same morose and repetitive lifestyle no one warned him of back in college. He counts, in fact, the number of days he spend toiling in that godforsaken cubicle, bent over numbers and papers, gum wrappers and coffee cups, for some invisible purpose. That’s a lie, a lie he tells himself, a lie to maintain his sanity, because he knows, knows in the back of his mind that there is no purpose.

He stepped out at a quarter to eight, slightly early but not too much to make a difference. Mass transit eats time, the mysterious underground tunnels swallowing eons and eons of time, some secret it keeps, mute, dank and alluring as rickety, squealing trains traversed its tunnels. He waved to Jeff, his doorman, a quick nod to Ms. Bentley walking her dogs (the frail, old woman amazed him, up earlier than he, quicker and far more nimble than he, owns more dogs that he has shoes), caught a flash of April, a waitress from the corner diner that haunts his imagination, something he’s too embarrassed to think about without the deep, dark cover of night and sleep. He’s always wanted to stop inside, but never mustered up the courage to even maintain a momentary glance in her direction. So, he buys coffee from a deli a block further.