Recovery II

7.09

I have a picture of James McAvoy as my Twitter profile pic. He’s just looking back at me, with his arms crossed and that grin across his gorgeous face and I can’t stop looking back at him.

I should leave. I don’t really feel like. I actually read my New York Times article today, suicide bombing in Afghanistan, the most interesting thing in the world.

After these four songs, I leave.

Every time I hear Just Communication, or like Catch You Catch Me, I feel like crying and weeping. I’m going to write a blog post about it. Maybe, or at least start it.

It’s hot. The sun’s hot. The bench is hot. The asphalt is hot. The only cold thing is the can of soda in his hand, slowly fizzing in the summer heat. Sprinklers from a nearby playground shower him in mist, the screams and shrills of laughing children, the wet plops of their little feet in flip flops, a girl in a flowery bathing suit and dropping pigtails, her mother in her bug-eyed designer sunglasses watching from across the park.

He bought a set of German polyhedral die yesterday, bright blue/silver color as the box read, for no good reason from a comic book store. He feels them clanking in his pocket and pats them, almost asking them why they are there.

He checks his watch, half past noon, perhaps he should leave. He’ll be late. He is already late. When is he not late? Punctuality is a crime.

He fetches the die set from his pocket, opens the packaging and searches for a d20. He’ll roll for it, odds he leaves, evens he stays.

Okay, okay, I leave, I leave!

Leaving!

So, moments come and pass, moments come and go. I cried for the first time in a really long time and the thought, that passing though that indeed people I love, people I like, things I’ve enjoyed doing, will be gone next year, it was scary, it was just scary.

I don’t want to let go of anything.

This song is as catchy as fuck and it sounds incredibly badass, like I’m going to go out and shoot the living hell out of everyone and love every second of it. I like this song.

I like you.

7.10

The real question is: should I invite him? How do I invite him, if yes be the answer to that question? Will he say yes? How will I feel if he says no? Why do I feel like my own personal psychiatrist, and why won’t I stop smelling like garlic?

I think you come up with good ideas when you’re young only because you’re dumb enough to think they’re going to work. Most of the time, they do.

I hate everything. Hi, Ricky. I can’t even manage a greeting. I can’t click on his name, I can’t click, I can’t type, I can’t greet. Fuck this.

And here I am, my own little mental dilemma that makes my arms go numb. Sometimes I think it’s the fan, but I know it’s just the thought of speaking to him.

I freak myself out sometimes. I don’t like it. If I don’t talk to him at some point, I think I’m going to combust, just implode, or die. It’s awful? It’s weird.

Have you heard the news? Bad things come in twos?

7.29

I have nothing else left to do, and honestly, Old Spice can get annoying after a while.

So, realistically, I’m not really thinking about him anymore. Truthfully, I miss my days of being an obsessive lover, on the verge of tears at the mere thought of this…idea, this person, whatever you, which is really me, want to call it. Nowadays, I’m just in denial about it. Or, maybe I’ve become numb to my fits of emotional insurrection, but I still can’t bring myself to IM him when he’s online, despite my need to ask him, “So, how’s that phone line of yours holding up?” Maybe it’s the fear that he won’t answer that keeps my keyboard happy fingers at bay, but then again, it works against me that he’s been idle for the last eleven hours and counting.

Then, on the other hand, you have the other kid. Of course, even in retrospect, none of this will make sense to anyone, not even me. My feelings for him are a mess, a stew of lovely, incoherent feelings and whatevers, and god, the spell of Old Spice is really, really strong. You know, the other other one, meaning the one above, had a particular smell too. No shit Sherlock, of course I know, I was there the entire time, you flipping moron. Shut up, this really isn’t a time to be schiz. No? Really, now, you’re telling me after some ten odd years you hate me? No, fucking Sherlock Holmes, I’m telling you to fuck off.

Right, anyways, there’s no real purpose, his screen name on AIM just makes me giddy. I really shouldn’t be, because I swear I’ve gotten over it, though I feel I will never actually get over it, but, really, we ought to move along. He’s still idle and he’s still there.

I just hate…being almost there.

I really hate just being almost there.

So much, so much, so much…that it hurts as bad, if not worse, than a headache, than a stomach ache, than anything else…

Well, there, I did it, my wireless just hates me, so much…

So much…

I’ll wait, I’ll wait. I’ll sit it out. This is actually legitimately annoying. I’d like my internet back and functioning.

So, wait, what was that page loading then? Some godforsaken tease my wireless network has become? What in the name of god is this?!

Judgement

I am, now, very satisfied.

Among other things…

Light reading turned out to be very boring, so I’m gonna just go for it when the torrent’s done and hopefully my one point something gigs of a cracked game is going to work. If not, I cry. For now, I suffer the throes of a dying love, unfinished homework and a stomach ache.

The search function is inherently useless.

I’m satisfied, today, with almost everything that’s happened. Jeffrey, Ricky, moomoo, food, movies, TCGs, games, everything today feels exceptional. A very good day, in the fine words of my friend, a very good day. And by god, I hope it stays that way. Maybe it’s because I’m recovering from a week of feeling deeply unwell and sick on the inside. Maybe it’s because I cut prep and stayed home the entire day, rolling around and doing nothing. Maybe it’s because I shared a moment with Ricky Meyer and nothing awkward happened. Maybe it’s because I’m accepting the fact that I’m going to miss him and he’s going to stay a friend. Maybe it’s because YOU ARE AN INANIMATE FUCKING OBJECT! Maybe it’s because that all my college bound senior buddies aren’t going to forget about me. Maybe it’s because I scored a 21-something on that practice SAT and there’s hope for me yet. Maybe it’s because, today, for the briefest of all moments, the world, the whole world, life itself, seems to be going my way, walking right down my block, up my alley, heading my way.

And now, I’m going to sleep to some good ol’ Yoko Kanno. Or, maybe Nine Inch Nails, though I don’t know how that’s going to help me sleep at all.

8.07

“Lobe, where the fuck is the bus?”

When my breath stops hitching when I see you, when talking to you becomes daily, when you aren’t the tingling sensation down the side of my, I think I’m through.

That song, this song, gets me, it’s catchy. I’m afraid? Annoyed? Can I say both? This feeling, that feeling, down there is bugging me, I hope it goes away. Most prevailing feeling of the moment, dread, annoyance, constipation.

If I go crazy will you still call me Superman?

It needs to go away.

The night is quiet the night is lonely

He walks, morose, through life silently

Lights a cigarette, the flame flickers

He has given me so many things, I’ve given him nothing. Is my company good enough?

If not for me, then you’d be dead.

That song makes a lot of sense to me, a lot, a lot of sense. Lately, I haven’t been feeling anything, none of my usual roller coaster rides into hell, none of my usual ups and downs and rants. Instead, a newfound complacency, have I found a home? Have I found peace, or am I simply at rest, at rest in his arms?

Do I keep him chained? Need I set him free? Is this reluctances love, or greed?

It’s odd, to share? Isn’t it? Because what’s mine is mine and to share with someone, him, this piece of me is like opening a book to the world that is solely mine. What is it now? He hasn’t even read the blurb, calm down.

It’s like holding your breath, for a really long time, until he responds and you get to see what he thinks of you.

Has he any idea how odd it is to have someone tell you they love you and not know what to say back? Like, being caught (without a Twix) and not knowing where to turn, to smile? Grin? Laugh? Reject? What am I to do?

Okay, it’s really distracting, there’s a violent surge, if you will, of emotion that is the completely opposite of emotion. Am I numb, or am I just missing something? Or, is this feeling entirely new?

Mostly, I tell you it’s just THAT, down THERE, that’s bothering me.

I left my body lying somewhere in the sands of time.

No wonder this song was such a hit, good fucking lyrics.

Night, kid.

I feel like crying. Awfully, into the night

Answer all of his questions (?) with laughter (lol).

She’s not sure where she stands anymore, which side of the road she’s standing on. Whether she’s the reflection or the one looking in, whether she’s living or whether she’s dead, whether she’s just a wraith floating mindlessly through the world, passing in and out of memories.

Remember me, when you’re gone.

I didn’t do homework. It’s an odd feeling. I forgot to ask.

Life seems to be so full of shit. All of the days I have lived, I have done nothing worthwhile. Perhaps he is the key to the rest of my life, to the rest of me, the me that’s been sleeping, waiting to rise.

With a summer like this, how can I look forward to September, to school?

With a life like this, have I any other horrors to seek? Have another life to lead?

I lied to my mother today, for the first time in a while, a lie of such a magnitude. I had done neither of the two things I so blatantly told her I did, but I promise to do so tomorrow.

He had, of course, left something here, a pen that wasn’t exactly his lying on my table.

Miles, maybe, had left already. Ricky leaves on the 15th. Harrison leaves on the 20th. Jeffrey leaves the night of the 21st, driven by his parents to Williamsburg, Virginia. I think I’m living a dream, a beautiful, ephemeral dream and the moment he leaves, the moment reality starts seeping in between the cracks of my beautiful, beautiful mirage, everything is going to crash. Life, the fire, Rabbit and Jill, life is but an illusion and all of this curious activity is a break from the monotony, the viscous tar of my life, the untimely reality.

SATs, looming like a knife above my head, in October, life waits.

Still listening to the same song. I like that song. Honest.

Maybe it’s the snare drum. I took a walk around the world to ease my troubled mind. I left my body somewhere in the sands of time.

Beautiful.

Lately, save for Winnie’s party, which was infected by his presence anyway (I’m stuck using words like reek and infect, which carry damn negative connotations, but fit the situation, don’t take it harshly)

fuck.

fuck.

fuck.

(Did you know that I look forward to you coming over?)

8.13

I’ve never came before thinking of a man. It’s a vile thought, dirty, but I couldn’t help myself as I edged closer to the zenith of my affection.

Alright, so what am I now? Content? I guess heartbreak is somewhere down this line, but right now, the moment, the molasses of life, as it ambles along, day to day, existence to existence, conversation to conversation, second to second is ample enough for my contentment.

I think I’m in love with. I know I’m in love with him. There’s a nagging sense of incomprehensibility. There’s more that I want than just a kiss, there’s more that I want to do than just a kiss, there’s more, there’s more, there’s a lot more, so much that I want to strangle him in the arms of my abstract ideals.

Yes, yes, I fucking love him. Now, you shut the fuck up. GODDAMNIT. You’re such an annoying bastard, even when we’re happy. Oh, you sick fuck. Yes, fine, go touch yourself. God…

And, don’t forget to shower…at like….four. lol

Death grew up a funny kid. He didn’t have any friends and spent most of his time playing by himself in the corner. He was nearly forgotten when the Immortals

One of these I’m going to run around screaming, “He loves me! He loves me!” in pure joy and still be embarrassed about it.

Egotistical

Death grew up a funny kid. For the most part, he was completely forgotten by the rest of the Immortals and had spent most of Creation sulking in the corner. They’ve always considered him, more or less, to be an accident, an afterthought, the child of a trifle conversation between mortals and immortals, back when they used to speak to each other.

“How are we any different from you?” the mortals had asked.

“Because we cannot die,” the immortals replied.

And thus, Death became his name, and Hell the land he walked.

The worst of part love is the expectation of something in return. The moment I fell for that trap was the moment I became a blind woman, grappling in the darkness for something to hold my hand and walk me through. Loosing control is never something I volunteer for.

Life would be a lot easier if I didn’t feel so useless, so condemned by my physical form, so beleaguered by my existence. Life would be a lot easier if I were dead.

My temperament is not one of action, my temperament in one of laziness, of tired laziness.

Guns N’ Roses, holy fucking shit. NIGHT TRAIN, I can’t do anything but just LOL!!

Azrael never really considered himself a servant

42nd and Broadway, he’s got his headphones, the fancy sound canceling kind, cranked up so high he doesn’t hear the taxi blaring at him. He cuts across the street, through sluggish, busy Manhattan traffic at midday, the sky is a luminescent shade of gray above him, as if it were about to rain.

Yeah, hush up about it. Please, just pretend it is not there.

The funniest thing: getting off on being shot during sex.

8.24

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[inhales deeply, exhales satisfied]

Ah, America. Land of the free, home of the brave.

8.27

She slips a finger between her wet folds. She whimpers softly at her own touch, shocked by her actions, by her own response. She runs her middle up and down lightly, almost gliding over her moist, tender lips. She spreads her legs further. She is propped up by one hand on her bed, head thrown back, in ecstasy from her soft touches. Her legs tremble. Her collar bones peek from under pale, white skin, moonlight dips in the shadows of her stomach, the sockets of her eyes, the valley of breasts, a traveler in the land of flesh. She teases herself and feels her tunnels contract. Her eyes closed, she whimpers again, drops her arm and lies back on soft satin sheets. The free hand immediately reaches for a nipple, thumb and index finger twisting the bundle of nerves, eliciting more moans from her mouth, lips glistening with moisture. She dreams of a man to love her. She spreads, when she is unable to resist the heat and tension building in her core, the wet lips of my womanhood and circles her erect clitoris. Her breathing turns to pants as middle finger works the small button of flesh, as her index and ring finger props open her lips. Her mind is blank with the hot fire of pleasure, she is beyond redemption, steeped in sin. Her clitoris takes her past the point of return, shoots her like a cannonball from the mouth of hell into cold, calm waters. Her moans were loud, groans guttural, every once in a while, when she hits a spot to sensitive, turns to a girlish squeal. Her eyes are squeezed shut, skin dripping with sweat, hair is caught between her head and the pillow, the friction she generates as she works only her clitoris. Suddenly, she comes, with a shriek of absolute pleasure, eyes bursting open, shooting up to a sitting position, she parts her legs further, slipping two of her fingers into her wet, dripping canal, two knuckles deep before she gives into the satisfaction of being filling. She pumps, starting over, she grinds against her over hand. She is now on all fours, all threes, one hand working herself to her second orgasm. Her fingers, she finds them inadequate in girth and length. Ripping own her nightstand drawer, she reaches, first, for her egg vibrator. The tiny pink colored ball slips in easily and she shudders, violently, as it begins to do its job. With a shaky hand she reaches for a dildo, purple and large. In her almost sedated state, she inserts the toy into herself after the egg. She shrieks again, high-pitched, like a banshee, her sheets were stained with her own juices. She works the dildo in and out of herself without stop, without pause, rapidly as possible. Her voice is hoarse, but she is unable to keep herself from moaning, the egg vibrates against her g-spot. A spare hand, almost absent-mindedly relative to the frenzy of activity between her legs, pulls at her nipples, another octave to her scream. She is certain that she will die, the pleasure so great and so intense, she cannot go any faster, the zenith of her own abilities. She pumps hard, fast, hard, fast, hard, fast, faster, faster, faster, faster…until her arm, her body, her mind, her very core is overcome with a feeling of numbness, blinding release, as if she’s found god. She screams, loud. She does hear her doorknob turn and does not see the masked man, armed with a knife, until it is too late. His rough callous hand presses the handle of the knife to her face, the cold metal rubs at her cheek. Her raises one index finger, but she screams regardless. Her shrill is muffled by an expert kiss, one, that after her episode, she finds herself unable to resist. He pins her wrists over her head. Shame overcomes her, disgust, but she longs so much for a man, so desperate, in the most vulgar of terms, for a cock, that she returns the intruder’s advance. He is surprised, the kiss becomes, almost, gentle. He lifts his mouth slowly. She does not scream. He is pleased. He drops the knife by her head, examines her face, a beautiful, innocent sort of face, undeserving of this violation, this desecration of her purity, but he is unable to control himself. He grinds his growing erection against her pelvis. She grinds back, a faint tear rolls down her cheeks, her own actions, is she but a simple whore. The rapist extends his tongue and licks the tear off her cheeks and claims his newfound prize with another kiss. The kiss trails down her neck, her collarbone, her breasts. His hands leave her wrists now that she is docile and subdued, like warm butter under his ministrations. He is in disbelief, how lucky he was to walk in on such a horny soul. His hands are rough, but she likes it, as it draws circles over her skin, briefly teasing her nipples, rousing them to attention, perky and upright, he flicks one and sucks the other. She grabs his head, tears off his mask in search of his hair. This takes him by surprise and his head jolts up, green eyes meet her confused-and lustful-brown. He is momentarily angered, then, as she raises her chests to brush at this chin, he continues his work. They have reached an understanding. She subdues the thought that he is strangely handsome. What would rouse such a handsome face to such depravity? She forgoes that train of thought and zooms in on the pleasure of his tongue and fingers. His hand trails down her body, tickling her, she moans, squeals, squirms much to his delight. This is less rape and more love making. He looks up at her, straddles her waist, his boots tracking dirt on her satin sheets. She does not mind. He grins as he hoists her legs over his shoulders and gently eases himself to a low, prone position on the bed. She watches as he extends his tongue, the tongue that had so passionately opened, despite the contradicting situation, her sexual floodgates, to take in this stranger, to allow him to touch her, to reveal to him her innermost desires, the tongue that now enters her womanhood. Her entire body arches, as if touched by fire, as if a jolt of electricity is sent through her body. Hot tears stream down her face, there is a sickness, coupled with love and hatred and lust and desire and a need to implode brewing in her stomach. She presses his head down further. The man sucks, with deceptive skill, at her clitoris. She bucks wildly as he inserts his larger, more adept fingers into her, once again, wet tunnel. One, then two, then, slowly, as if he does not wish to hurt her, he plunges in a third. A moan, a deep moan emanating from chest gives him permission to continue. He plays wilding with her clit and thrusts hard and fasts his three fingers. Her mind races, better than a toy, better than plastic, she is bucking, bucking, bucking as his hand, against his face, juices, fluids, everywhere. In a slow, deliberate motion, he stops. She looks up, confused, horny, needy, ready to explode, but before she is addressed, she feels his tongue, that beautiful tongue, crawling up her tunnel. She explodes, without restraint, and gushes into his mouth. He listens to the sound of himself eating her. His member strains against his pants and is pained by neglect. He drops his pants, his boxers, all in one fluid motion. She is momentarily captivated by his large member before all of it disappears in her. Her eyes widen, pupil constrict, mind blank and for the first time that night, is completely numb. Gone, over the edge, she is an animal, he is an animal, they mate. She reaches for his shoulders and humps his stiff piece rhythmically to his movements. He clutches her by her ass, slapping them at interval, the sound of skin on skin, flesh, urges them on. He spreads her cheeks and devilishly inserts the egg vibrator, though to some resistance, into her second hole. He mutes her ecstatic moan with a kiss. Their love making, what began as masturbation turned rape, is frenzied. The noises are almost incomprehensible, grunts, moans, pants, mouth open, eyes closed, she is taken, intoxicated. He is nearing the edge of his abilities, he finds, in his heart, a strange place for this woman. He fucks her, without regret. He finds that she is shaking, clinging to him, despite herself, she brings her lips to his ears in an almost painful motion and whispers, gives him permission. With this, he fucks harder, thrusting hard, she is almost bouncing on his pulsating member, tunnel squeezing the flesh as she nears another climax. He feels the egg, sometimes, and moves faster. From their upright position, he slams her down on the bed, against her sheets, pushes her legs over her head, caging her, pinning her down and plows into her. Without notice, except for a loud, groan, he comes in her. She feels fulfilled, coming shortly after, her tunnels clenching his cock. She is filled by his semen. He stays in her and does not move, collapses on top of her, pulls out the egg and kisses her. He no longer remembers why he broke into the house, and she no longer remembers that he had intended to rape her. They fall asleep, together.

I keep on having these dreams, dreams about people who love me, or almost.

I mean, listening to really happy, almost unheard of pop makes me happy sometimes. Fuck it, who cares if I’m listening to Good Charlotte or something, I like it right now, I’m good right now.

Okay, goals in life:

Fly to outer space and therefore, loose weight, make a shitload of money, maybe win the lottery

Paul Drugs

Quiet honestly, I wouldn’t mind any of it. I’d be his little girl. I feel so small in his company, so dainty, so clumsy, so small, so tiny, so child-like and full of wonder, like I’d want to stay with him, cling to him, lie in his lap….

I feel like a cat. I feel warm. I want to hear his heartbeat. I want to hear him. I want him, so much. I want him to be with me. I want him to stay.

Where are you?

It’s like, it’s like, it’s like….I can’t even really describe it. It’s just this longing, this deep, desperate longing for something, a longing that I can’t seem…to get over.

I’m tired. There’s a headache brewing. I need to write that oratory before Friday. If I closed my eyes right now, I’d be gone in seconds, minutes.

He cooked me lunch that day. And, sitting on the couch in his house, watching him from the back, his round, hunched shape, with his god awful haircut and shorts, with him, I felt the most incredible thing, something so delicate, so perversely innocent and sweet I can’t edge it out of my mind at all.

Every time I think of us fucking, I get a warm feeling in my heart. I wonder, what’s the real difference between making love and fucking? Which is sweeter, and which is more brutal? Which is it?

I need sleep.

He lifts her chin and brings her lips closer to his. He gazes at her, through hooded lids, a milky, opaque look in his eyes, clouded by desire, hunger, love and need. She’s wide-eyed and stunning in the reflection cast by the mirror of his eyes, looking back. She is cornered by his body, one arm extends to the wall, hand next to her head, his support. Eyelids sink deeper, he is taken by darkness as he, on instinct, presses his lips to hers. It is brief, mere contact, he breaks away, but does not move away, noses touch, foreheads resting against each other. Her eyes are closed, a faint pink taint her cheeks, and she grabs a handful of his shirtsleeve.

Had a dream about Ricky last night, it was like a conglomeration of the school year. I dream pretty symbolically. I was in Time Square, I think. Perhaps doing the English project, but I was never there for that shooting. There was McDonalds with a two customer lines, two alcoves and one was larger than the other. Some people doing a photo shoot, I think Tila Tequila was there. It was an odd photo shoot, they were all dressed up. One of them, some black lady, bursting out of her costume, was in a variation of some qi pao like garb, and she was the photographer. They were doing it in front of the second McDonalds entrance. The whole place didn’t resemble Time Square in the least, but my mind told me it was.

Somewhere down the line, Ricky and Miles come down the street, like they did the eighth floor hallway second term. Ricky’s wearing black, a strange piece of cloth zipped up all the way to the collar. I don’t really remember much of Miles, you can tell why. Ricky, for some reason, like he always does, comes down and talks to me, maybe it’s because no one else there really knew him, or maybe it’s because I wanted him to. I think I wanted him to. We talk about something and most of that bit of the dream is a blur. We noticed them, if I remember, down the street because a friendly, yet smelly bum was headed in our direction with a group of other bums and they were behind them.

I was under the assumption that Ricky was in the golf club and there was some sort of violence involving a golf club. But, as it turns out, he was on some Ultimate Chase thing. You know, if you remember, like that game we played at Katerina’s with Eva and her. So, basically, he gets on a bus, then, after receiving radio, or some form of communication, instruction, he dodges off the bus and runs after someone. All the while, I’m watching, with some sort of food in my hand, my mind tells me that that’s appropriate as such. I watched the photo shoot.

There was also a mild interlude about walking down hill on a street, something like a row of brownstones with the air of San Francisco to it. And movies, I don’t remember much.

So, when he gets back, I was hoping that’d he’d eat and he does. He buys some sort of McDonalds food and we sit. He whips out of a map, several maps and I suddenly have this ephiphany that it was like that board game. I was dreaming that he was playing the board game. Instead of Mr. X, the culprit was like Sexy something.

Right before I woke up, I think my hand was settling in his, in a really mute, really stifled and crush-like and high school way, the way it’s always been and always will be in my memory, nothing more, nothing less.

I think, the first I said to him when I saw him was to take him by the arm and tell him I missed him. I forgot his response.

I’m not sure, I miss him, I miss it, I miss loving love for the sake of love, I miss being perennially occupied with a figment of my imagination, some grand seal I placed upon this poor man as a symbol of my idolatry. I miss physics class, I miss his computer, I miss arm, covered in fine, gold hairs that brushed briefly against my own, I miss that curious look on his face, when he would turn to me and I’d see his blue and amber irises, I miss him, I miss him. I don’t know why I still do, but it comes back to me with a dream, all of the bits and pieces of the man I fell in love with, a man that never loved me back, the ephemeral moments I spent with him. It all started with that hair.

‘Still typing?’

‘Yeah.’

The reality is something I can never handle. Where I am now, it’s a strange place. I’m not with somebody I’d ever imagine being with, yet I can’t let him go because I’m afraid of being alone, of being hung up on, of being signed off on, of being by myself again, why am I so cruel to him?

I love him, too. I do, I do, I do, I do, I do, I do. If only….perhaps life was just not meant to be. I want to stop being a coward. But if you, me, I, looked nice enough, maybe we wouldn’t have to do the talking, maybe we wouldn’t have to do the work and suffer the heartbreak. Human emotional is fickle, power over this capriciousness in a wonderful gift.

Suffocate

Announcing

Miscellaneous

Personal

I had a dream about Paul Drugs. Paul Drugs does not exist. So, basically, it was like a Stuy crossed with Hogwarts and every time I stepped outside, the school courtyard grew. So, there was this redhead guy, who looked a lot like some famous ballet dancer and he kept inviting me to do drugs and I wasn’t exactly refusing. But every time we tried to smoke, something stupid would happen, like he drops in sand and can’t find it, a gust of wind blows the cocaine away, or something. It looked a lot like the courtyard from Atonement, with the fountain, but more green and minus James McAvoy. A lot of weird shit happened, I remember some people wrestling in the third floor atrium, near the gym. I remember some weird water ballet performance by the faculty. They wore hideous costumes and dove into the pool, which was outdoors and in an alcove of sorts. We watched by the side, huddled together because the pool deck was slippery and skinny. And, the end of this dream was marked by a strange Call of Duty game commercial involving a man named Paul Drugs. Paul Drugs, as I remember it, lay in a military cot, with tubes running in and out of his body, a little military experiment gone wrong-esque, with bandages and what not, a little anime-esque as well. There’s the commercial guy’s voice in the background, Paul Drugs’ eyes fly open. He goes crazy. Every time he is shot, the bullet would turn into a spike growing out of his skin and he would rip it off, like that Naruto guy, and impale the shooter with his own bullet. And, that’s about it.

Paul Drugs, man….

…what’s your story…

Hearing my heart break, I feel like crying. Maybe it’s a lack of a sleep, maybe it’s a lack of you, maybe it’s both. Here I sit in your sweater, clinging desperately to a fleeting memory of you, clinging desperately to the memory of a man who promised to love me, a promise that I fear one day broken, will be my solitary ruin, here I sit (weak and weary) by my lonesome self.

Last night was probably the first time I thought about Ricky Meyer in a really long time.

I’ve loved you for such a long time, such a long, long time. Why won’t you love me back? Why won’t you love me?!

Quite honestly, I just really needed a way out, an escape from the horrid reality that plagues. Now that my escape has left, now that I am left alone, once again, now that the world comes crashing back, like the pull and push of waves on the beach, I’m…lost? Lonely? Miserably? This is a world that never loved me. I am alone.

And somehow, right now, the world seems so big and I seem so small and college so intimidating and school so annoying and all I want is you, you, you, to bury my face in your chest, take in the way you smell, stay with you, hang on to you, my last flickering ray of light, of hope, of salvation from my lonely despair. Oh, stay with me.

And in an instant, all of this emotion washes over me. All of this leaves me and I feel no more the pain, the dull ache that resides in the calm and lucid sea of my dreams. It leaves me like a wraith being blown across the world, his ghostly existence betrays him. It leaves, like autumn wind and winter snow. It leaves, like you left me.

Maybe I’m just hungry. Perhaps hunger is akin to despair, lust, the need to be filling, satiated by your presence, a thirst never ending, complete me? I beg.

Everything reminds me of you, your silence, your abrupt unresponsiveness plays, teases my mind. I long, I long for your response, speak, I shall listen to your words, savor them like droplets of gold, of honey, of sweet mellifluous sound. Speak.

I hate it, I hate it, I hate all of it. Take me seriously. Love me.

There’s a sickness in my stomach. Please stay. I want to cry, cry, cry, cry, cry, please don’t go. Be with me. Love me. Tend to me. Feed my heart with love. Do anything, just don’t leave. Please, don’t forget about me.

I can’t stand it, fuck, fuck, fuck, I really, I spend almost every single waking moment just thinking about him, this person, him, you, he, shit, I don’t care, I don’t know. I want you, I want you. Come back, come back. This is worse than anything you could’ve ever done to me, to leave me like this, like you always do, abruptly, right when I’m reaching satisfaction, right when I’m willing to admit my love for you, right when I know what I want, when I want to tell you something you leave at the worse times possible.

I’m trying to type with all ten fingers and it’s really sort of hard even though it’s really not, maybe that’s why lately I’ve been slipping up because I’m engaging my left ring finger but that;s a different story entirely. In a way I am typing faster but I don’t really know.

Hey, kid

I miss you. No, quite honestly I don’t know what I’m feeling now, but it hurts a hell of a lot every time I so much as even think of you. The though of you crossing my mind is akin to be stabbed repeatedly through the heart with a sharp, blunt, hot, molting, large piece of metal. It hurts like fuck.

It really just comes back, now, to yearning for someone, anyone. I’m…tired? Tired? Of waiting, of this gushing feeling exploding from my chest, of loving…

Do I miss him? Or the idea of him? I wonder…if I’ll ever stop living in abstractions. I wonder…if I’ll ever get over myself. Cease my useless pandering…I wonder.

Why, why, why, why, why, why…do I do this all the time. I’m so useless in every venture I attempt. I’m so useless in everything I don’t attempt. A dream is a dream, and I’ll just look for a way out.

I feel like crying. Everything is an inane impossibility.

I needed that, in the most sincere way, I need that.

He was sort of right, I can’t get any credit for it anyways.

My penis, your vagina, come Thanksgiving? Oh god, I feel like tackling him. I’m giddy. That’s all.

Henry Rearden’s family needs to be smacked. I feel bad for the poor man. God, his mother is awful. I would’ve loved the bracelet. I am a fucking sentimentalist.

There’s a…there’s something…I’m trying to understand myself and failing. I don’t get why it hurts so much, human emotion, human interaction, all of this nonsense that fills the world. I just want to die, inevitably, in the end. I want to cry. I want him and yet, I know, I know I don’t. I don’t know I want something better. There, there we go. He’s my first love? Just the first. I’d wound up marrying my high school sweetheart? Who am I? What am I going to do? Why am I such an incapable person. GOD FUCKING DAMN. GOD FUCKING DAMN I HATE EVERYTHING Shhh, quiet, calm down, calm down…shhh, I hate it when he tells me to shut up. I hate it when he doesn’t speak. I don’t get him. Why is he so self destructive? What is he trying to PROVE?

There’s restlessness in my bones, in my veins, that maybe I’m mistaking for lust and desire, or maybe it’s the other way around. If her were here with me I’d wring his neck, but had he been here the entire time, I wouldn’t be feeling this, at all. Everything, everything is a dream, I’m living in a hell, without a door and without a window, without an exit. I want out.

I had a dream about Simon Baker, yes, “The Mentalist” guy, yes, yes, yes. I liked it very much, the way he looked at me, slipping his hand in mine, the way his skin felt, smooth, silky, like butter, like cream, the way he held me as we studied that sheet. I don’t get what we were doing, I suppose we were stuck in the day July 20th. What year? I don’t remember. And the second, the second the fragile shell of my dream breaks, I’m tossed like a helpless rag doll back into reality, into the jarring company of my friends, my Iona prep friends, my Stuy friends, Michael May, John Connuck, Justy Kosek, people I don’t even think about, unless I see them of course. Perhaps, perhaps this is a sign…of something, a sign of foreboding. Something.

I don’t know how I feel right now. I feel numb to everything, but at the same time so sensitive to the smallest emotion. Sex, fucking, nothing, nothing, it’s all just nothing, ash, dust, a carpe diem philosophy, smoke and mirrors, rising in the air like a cylindrical dragon of death, a phoenix rising fro, its ashes, from the cherry pit of a cigarette, rising to greet the ceiling, rising to die.

Life…is but another dream

Something about everything that bugs me. How much I love him, how much I do but don’t want to stay together. How much everything hurts and how much I just want to…I can’t even describe it in words anymore. It’s just this nagging sense of something that eats and eats and eats away at everything, it’s like acid.

He always checks, when he puts on headphones, whether or not it’s the left or right earpiece, it bothers him when he gets it wrong.

But he makes me happy on the inside. I feel like I want to keep him, keep him still and hold him somewhere, captive. I wasn’t really kidding about the whole Calypso thing. God, I hope that haircut thing works out.

Okay, okay, maybe I do look like a retard. But at least I’m happy, at least I look the part.

The house is dark and damp, pellets of rain drum against the windows. He wakes to a clap of thunder.

Do you know your beaches?

I don’t really know why I’m happy with him. Honestly. But I am happy, indecently happy. I don’t want to let go.

Okay, I know shut the fuck up. He isn’t the most handsome thing in the world. He doesn’t have the biggest dick in the world (whatever, at this, point, whatever, it’s honestly, the only one I know, so for all I know, it’s the best thing in the world), and honestly, my conscious isn’t going to let me get away with staying with him my entire in life and in a secret portion of my soul, I know, I want, I know I want to marry a white man, but goddamn, god motherfucking goddamn son of a bitch, I LOVE HIM. So you, you, stay still and shut the fuck up for a couple seconds. What happens, happens, I’ll deal with it. I’ll deal with it. I’ll fucking deal with it.

Honestly, I don’t know when I’m gonna wake up tomorrow, honestly. It feels like I might not making up tomorrow. XD

Oh well, oh fucking well. I don’t even have a big part and I’m going to look like a retard tomorrow.

I want to see him tomorrow. I want to see him tomorrow. I want to be with him, forever and ever and ever. And, I don’t know, I need his hair to grow back.

I don’t think about Ricky anymore, maybe I was just desperate and in this desperation, I stumbled into him, which, honestly, is the best anything I could’ve ever asked for. My superman. My hero. My savior. (Okay, that last one, too extreme, but still…)

CHRIST FUCKING MISQUITOS

JESUS CHRIST!

I HAVE ANOTHER ONE ON THE BACK OF MY NECK!!! WHAT THE FUCKING FUCKITY FUCK FUCK IS THIS SHIT!?

I still can’t get over how much ‘this’ looks like ‘shit’.

This is my boyfriend. His name is Jeffrey. He’s a little shy, a little strange and a little unfamiliar.

I want

I want to hold on and never let go

I want to love you forever

It’s like being addicted to heroine, or addictive to anything. The more you have, the more you want it and it gives you the shivers when you think about living without it.

He, you, you were the first the person to love me. I’ll never forget you. Cross whatever bridge that comes my way, I’ll remember you forever.

If I breathe deeply enough, sometimes I can still smell him, lingering in my senses.

Obsessive love

Well, I haven’t written a word in a really long time.

Mainly because, I think, I’ve been spilling my guts to Jeffrey, thus eliminating a real need to pour my sacred thoughts out to Word. But, now that he’s gone, my anti-drug, I’ve returned to thee. Oh, how I have missed the serif fonts, the clacking of my keyboard, the stark, austere black font on white, pixel by pixel, keystroke by keystroke, a sick and twisted masturbation, I confess myself to you.

Right, so, I’m going to head to work in a bit, like, ten minutes, or so. I’m really glad she’s on vacation, it means I’m on vacation, for that one day or so.

I have about a week left, a week left of the inside of my room, a week left of my electric fan humming by my side, a week left of lethargic stillness, stagnation, boredom, or not posting on my anime blog, or fiddling with the rest of my site and code and whatever.

Anime’s been out of my system lately, I’ve, in a really odd way, lost complete interest in the matter. I’m hoping to pick it back up again because it’s not really something I can do without, but it’s nice to know that I can live without it regardless.

I’m going to learn how to play Nightrain, just watch.

This document’s been open for a long ass time.

Do I love him? Yes. No? Maybe? I can’t tell anymore, but I want him, I love being with him. I love him in me. It’s a weird feeling to feel like you belong somewhere and that somewhere, someone loves you.

Famous people write memoirs, I’m not famous yet.

He left today, around 2ish, 3ish, with a picture of me in his wallet and a rabbit keychain, as reminder of my love, with him, somewhere on his person.

I’ll wait for the day he returns.

Stuff

I don’t do anything important at night. Read some fanfics, drink some water, feel thirstier afterwards, think about Ricky, move along. I’ve stopped thinking about him lately, it’s not as bad as it used to be. I guess I’m over that hormonal bump of lustful wishes and rampant desires, and undying regret and sorrow. I’m over it, for the time being.

I think its James McAvoy. James McAvoy cured me of Ricky Meyer. Both are good names. Heh.

I’m crazy, because I when I think back to all of it now, I sort of miss him, or just having a body next to me. He needs to wash those sheets. He does, or, I’m not going to forgive myself. And I have to take my stuff and burn a disk for Miles before he leaves.

James McAvoy: My Anti-Drug

James McAvoy is really hot. James McaAvoy needs his own category. James, James, James….ah, it’s such a wonderful name…

James McAvoy, oh boy, oh boy, oh boy, at least I’m normal, now, or not.

Life was never a book I wanted to read. None of the chapters are good, some of them are boring. The characters are detestable, drab, boring, cliché, just like any other book and there is no end in sight. The author relishes in mundane detail and cursory observations. Too much drama, there’s no connection with the reader despite the obvious effort. I could care less about what happens next, every page, every word, every letter is exactly the same. Sometimes I wish I’d just flip to a blank page and it would be the end, or write, starting on that blank, the singular question that remains unanswered despite my struggle, Why am I reading?

Teenage angst, I tell you, hurts like a mother. Not only is most of it completely irrational, but it’s painfully irrational.

Summer of ’69 makes sort of sad.

If you listen to rock music, it makes you feel like you’re the shit, like you own the whole fucking world. Long enough that is…

Bicycle Boy

He had always imagined that he would die in the rain, die to a screeching guitar solo (he’s thinking Bon Jovi, Shot Through the Heart), lying in the arms of his lover with a bullet in his heart, gun in his hand, his last words ready to roll off his lips, but they would never materialize. The streetlight above them would flicker as he draws his last gasp, hand reaching for the tear streaked face of his lover one last time before falling limp. And then, as he had always imagined it, she would cry, weep uncontrollably as the guitar solo thumps out his eulogy, her screams of anguish drowned out by the crescendo of rain, as the camera lifts up from the scene and pans across the cityscape at night.

So, where the hell does that leave him now?

He’s staring down the barrel of a gun, trying to focus on the silver barrel of the weapon makes him cross-eyed. He cannot see who is holding the gun, but feels every bit of their presence, an overwhelming sense of death, of decay and of rotting flesh.

He closes his eyes, where have you been lately? I’ve been right here all along. He feels the street slip from underneath him, feels gravity pulling him and hears the shot being fired.

He wakes, abruptly, from his dream to a malignant knock at his door. A hasty glance at his nightstand clock, a blaring 0:11 it reads, he pulls on a pair of pants and navigates, in the dark, to the source of the noise. The harsh rapping continues until he twists the lock and wrenches the door open.

“Delivery for James Finley,” he raises an eyebrow at the delivery man, dressed in a familiar yellow and red uniform. The man smiles a very plastic, very fake, his mind adds, smile and hands him the clipboard.

James feels uncomfortable in his presence, but takes the clipboard and plastic ballpoint anyway, “Do you guys,” he gesticulates with the blue pen, “usually deliver this late?” The question stifles a yawn as he scribbles, in a lucid and flowing handwriting, his signature on the line and dots his ‘i’ with a responding tap on the board.

He is handed a small cardboard box. “We deliver twenty-four seven, sir, every single day of the year. Thank you and have a pleasant day, sir,” another plastic smile in his direction, with a tip of the red and yellow cap.

“Thank–”, when he looks back up, after examining briefly the package, the delivery man is gone. He tells his pasty, dimly light, graffiti scrawled hallway, “—you.” And slams the door shit.

He retreats into his dark cavern, the safety of his cocoon like inhabitance, weighing the package in his hands, shaking it as he flicks on his desk lamp and sits down.

In wide strokes, he clears his table of clutter, brushing loose change, crumpled napkins, yesterday’s Chinese take-out to one side and pens, unopened letters, house keys and a can of empty Pepsi to the other. He places the carton before him gently. He yawns, wondering what to do with the box.

The knife cuts through the tape easily. He slices open the package with the tipped blade of an exact-o knife he finds in a drawer somewhere. He, almost unconsciously, decides to open it. Bending back the cardboard tab, he shakes the contents of the relatively empty package out onto the table. A slick, defiantly thin, black cellphone slips out in front of him and clacks onto his much, much to his surprise.

Empty Hallways

James Finley moved out of his second floor studio

James, as she remembers him, had the bluest eyes of anyone she’s ever seen. Such a vivid shade of blue they were that first summer evening, such a vivid shade of blue they would remain for the next dozen summer evenings that James Finley lived across the way. The great gaping asphalt abyss of Maple Lane separating her, in her knee-length summer dresses, and him, in his

His eyes were such a remarkable shade of blue, as she remembered them, the bluest eyes of anyone she had ever seen. A blue so vivid, as if hot, liquid flames licked the veneer of his irises and threw shadows on the inner caverns of his gaze. A blue so vivid that she found it unbearable to looks away, even for a moment, for she fancied herself drowning in the ocean of his furtive glances, an ocean of soft, calm blue, the blue spikes and spears lapping at her welcoming shore.

Life hurts right now, in a really bad way, in a I can’t get my AP grades, I can’t see Ricky Meyer, I can’t get into an Ivy League college way. Maybe not life, then, maybe it’s reality that hurts, that bites, that stings, that realization next morning that I’m not going to make it through all of this alright and that it’s going nibble and nip and bite and pry at me for the next couple of decades.

I hate how everyone is caught up in their own bullshit, so they can’t pay attention to mine. I hate how small I feel at the center of everything. I hate how useless I am in the end of everything. I hate how I’m just so ordinary and pathetic in the very worst ways. I hate my own existence because I can’t fix it.

I don’t need to hear about it anymore, I know. I have a sinking feeling of dread, doom, the occasional sense of unrest, unease, sickness, a sickness that rests in my stomach, in my chest, that sinks like dirt, to the bottom of my arteries, to the pit of my stomach and sits and sits and sits, unmoving, immutable pain, that every once in a while, is stirred by a pesky disturbance, an annoyance, a trespasser in my feigned veneer of peace.

I feel like crying and crying and crying so that one day, I don’t have to cry anymore.

I’m shaking, the fan makes me cold. I have the most unnerving predications of the future and a blinding, overwhelming white heat, like a poker, sticking through my gut, piercing my heart, all of this as I wait, as the minutes tick by and the world lapses.

Okay, let’s be honest. We didn’t do so good, did we? No, no, we did not. So, what’s the best that we’re expecting? Certainly not fives, certainly not. Can we settle for a three? Sure, maybe. Alright. So, it’s a three and any lower I will die.

Demeanor

I used to write the first letters of the first words of the first sentences of individual paragraphs of my speech before rounds, on napkins. It was mind-numbingly repetitive, never had a memory lapse. I only did it once, at States and the judge looked me funny because I scribbling through other people’s speeches.

James Finley was turning twenty-six and he was alone. Sometimes he resented the way his footsteps echoed in his single room apartment, how the floor creaked from his weight, but for now, he remained seated, perched before his television with a plastic fork in one hand and a microwave dinner in the other.

Pathetic is a word that ran numerous times across his mind, but he preferred not to think about it. Friends was on and his dinner, as he looked down at the lump of meat before him, decorated by green peas and orange carrots and a watery, brown gravy, was waiting. He preferred not to think about it. The blunt tip of the fork dug into a pea and broke the green, dimpled skin. Joey was saying something to Monica.

Sometimes, he was just glad he had a couch, because he’s spent so many nights on the raggedy piece of furniture, the same one that he picked up senior year, he wouldn’t know what to do without it. He was half asleep by ten, microwave dinner conquered and tossed down the garbage compactor down the hall, the credits were rolling for Friends and he was barely able to read the fine, white text through the slits of his eyelids. He gave a slight yawn as the commercials cut in, stretched, rolled over on his couch and buried himself in a corner of the couch, digging his nose into the flower patterned fabric that smiled, as best he could describe it, like home. The floor beneath him shuddered, passing train, he slept. He left the TV on, “call today for your free trial package.”

The television colors danced along his back, across the pattern of his checkered button down, the individual strands of his uncombed hair, the curve of his neck, the shifting creases and folds of his jeans as he fidgeted, the rubber plateaus of his sneakers, dangling over the other end of the couch.

Finley dreamt lightly. He was chase by a murky obscurity that eventually wrapped its black, slimy ribbons around his waist, binding his arms to his sides. The realization that it was indeed a dream ruined the experience for him and he flitted through the remainder of his nightmare as a wraith, neither scared nor stimulated by the best that his imagination could muster.

James Finley was turning twenty-six and he was alone.

“There is a rumor of the most unsettling nature circling the Mist these days,” The man begins. Intertwining his long, pale fingers accentuated by three, knobby joints, he leans in, lowering he head closer to the candle flame, and whispers slowly, with reluctance, “She’s back.” A sudden gust of wind invades the tavern, banging open doors and windows, catching the patrons off guard. The candle flame bends, as if being pulled to its death by invisible fingers, as if being teased by its own demise, before snapping back to place.

The creature sitting across the table jerks violently at the words, in the sudden chill it shudders, bony shoulder shaking under leathery, pasty, amphibian skin. The candle flame dances, throwing grotesque shadows on the tavern wall behind it. The creature’s eyes—huge, bulbous, luminescent orbs, pale, gray, fear-stricken—dart back and forth, from one corner of the noisy tavern to the other before settling back on the source of this information. Its pupils elongate vertically, like a cat’s, into a thin streak of black dividing liquid pools of mercury, it speaks, stuttering, “Who, who, how, how do you know for sure that,” it catches its breath, and trudges on slowly, “sh-she’s back?”

The man notices a bead of cold sweat dripping down the creature’s voluminous forehead. He reaches for his glass of wine and notices that his own hand is shaking, beneath his tailored shirt and suit an overwhelming fear bubbles. Clenching the goblet with difficulty, he downs the rest of his drink with muted satisfaction and slams the vessel down against the antique wooden table. He looks to his friend, the fish-like creature before him, “The River never lies.”

Somewhere between a shriek and a gasp, the creature settles further into its unwelcoming wooden chair, face devoid of color. Its scaly, webbed fingers reach out for its goblet, taking a sip of its drink, barely able to swallow. “Has she made preparations?”

His companion shakes his head solemnly, stalks of hay colored hair swing back and forth, the human sighs, “She’s taking her time.” A barmaid, juggling a large, brass pitcher of wine, refills his goblet generously, her beige dress sweeping the floor. He eyes the way the dress adorns her hips from above the lip of his goblet as she walks away. The sound of the fish’s voice draws the man back to the table.

“This is the end, isn’t it?” The creature laments, a small wail escapes his plump, blubbery lips as he bows his head in contemplation.

“Don’t be so pessimistic.” The man tries to grin, but the edges of his mouth weigh heavy and the hastily raised veil of levity drops. He sighs, “Come of it, Lobe. It’s just one immortal who woke up from a four millennia nap.”

Lobe looks up alarmed and hisses vehemently, “Quite, fool! Not so loud, not so loud!” Looking around suspiciously, a new paranoia creeping up on the creature, Lobe whispers, “Unhappy immortals are of the worst sort. I’m telling you, anybody with one of these bloody Imperial Seals,” he shakes the golden amulet in the hilt of his sword, “anybody in the Imperial Army, anybody that has anything to do with the current ruling crown is going to get it when the next decade rolls around, and if she’s in a rush, tomorrow.”

“You think there’s going to be a war?” Liopold asks, dubiously.

After thoughtful consideration, Lobe gulps and pinches his pale face into a grimace. Eyes squeezing shut, lips pursing, he exhales deeply, gills flapping like the exhaustion pipe of a car, “Yes. And we’re all screwed.”

—

Shadows, as James Finley’s grandfather used to tell him, dwell in the Mist. The abode of the Immortals, shadows are mankind’s sins and follies, their irreverent protectors and guardians, in the murky fog of eternity they reside. Past the river brimming with ice, across the bridge built of memories, lies the Mist, the city of the dead, of miscreants, vagabonds and creatures forgotten by the day.

His grandfather’s voice never left him. On restless nights, when the dull ache of loneliness grinds away at the edges of his mind, he finds solace in the warmth of childhood memories. The way his grandfather’s apartment used to smell, of newspaper, coffee and decades of his grandmother’s handiwork and housekeeping, a woman he never knew. The way the apartment silently echoed each passing sound from the city three floors below, a passing ambulance, a crying child, noisy teenagers, and on quiet Sundays and the sound of leaves rustling.

James Finley never heard the end of that story, falling asleep way too early in his grandfather’s arms, head buried in his sweater. Sometimes, he wasn’t sure how he felt about all of it, sad, remorseful, regretful, words that never quite filled the gap where his grandfather should’ve been.

James Finley is turning twenty-six and he is every bit alone.

Recovery

5.18

At some point in life, he figures, shit just materializes out of nowhere. Three hundred and ninety four days, for all the three hundred and ninety four days that he’s known her, nothing good has come of it. All he does now is sit at his desk and ponder what she’s doing. Is she making photocopies of something? Is she combing her hair? Is she sipping her coffee, held delicately in her small porcelain hands? Hands that, once on a rather fortunate occasion, found their way to him as she tripped over his mess of power cords and wires resembling the root of a very large tree, and she made the smallest of all possible noises, the most delicious noise he’s ever heard, rivaling even that of a cute puppy whimpering, the sweet sound that escaped her lips as her hands grabbed his shoulders for support. Her emerald eyes widening as the heel of her stiletto refused to leave the entanglement, her form shuffling down the rows of cubicles, her first and last encounter with Mr. William McEnrow, programming, fourth floor. And he didn’t even know her name.

Put it this way, he argues in his head, dead end job, unable to pay rent, why not throw yourself off the roof of your forty four story office building? He taps the ashes off his cigarette and watches the gray specks fall off the edge, into oblivion. The sheer orgasmic brilliance of dying, he didn’t know that he’s suicidal. He sticks the cigarette between his lips, checks his watch, pulls loose his stripped tie, William McEnrow, age twenty nine, is going to jump off the roof of a building, July 14th, eleven fifty four AM.

He stretches out his arms and feels like Christ nailed to the cross. The wind plays, like a sadistic tease, with his hair, running her chilly fingers between each strand and tickling gently his skin. The roof below pushes up on him, the sky above pushes down on him, he raises his head to a cloudless blue, the last thing he’d ever see, and he burns the image into his mind. Closing his eyes, he slips headfirst into resoundingly empty space and just falls.

People see him through their glass windows. Anonymous fellow committing suicide, always a pleasant surprise in the morning, and then his friend chokes on his coffee, throws the cup aside and plasters his face to the window in horror.

As if divine Providence existed, as if right at that moment the God that’s abandoned McEnrow taps him gently on the shoulder and whispers, “My child, open your eyes, your Eve awaits you.”

And the last thing he’d ever see ends up being her. Three hundred and ninety five days, and the bit that shakes him out of his suicidal plunge is the bit where she’s looking back. The folder slips from her fingers, and the glass between them disappears. A great gust of wind, still the same tease, throws the contents of the folder into the sky. She reaches for the paper, more for him than the paper. Like his mother’s broom, invading the little nooks and crannies of what used to be his childhood privacy; the wind picks her up and throws her out after him.

Checking and hoping are two different things entirely. Tell that to him though, he checks every morning, eight-thirty sharp, for her.

It’s raining, it’s wet and all the damn taxis in the world seem to have found a passenger and have the need to deliberately splash him with water as they pass by. His umbrella broke on forty fifth street and he walked another two blocks before giving up the prospect of getting there on time and of not getting wet.

“Taxi!” People are staring at him, he could care less. He flings his briefcase wildly above his head in attempt to flag down a taxi. The buckles on his black leather briefcase slip from their slick confines and send all of his papers bellowing into the soggy New York rain. Like confetti on New Year’s, a day’s worth of work falls onto the sidewalk. His briefcase drops to his side, he blows a few strands of his wet bangs marring his vision

6.19

I was told once to take care when you say things like, “I don’t know.” Or, “I love you.” I fucked up this time, didn’t I. Too much care, I suppose.

At this point, he considers slowly, does it matter anymore? The tiny voice, (why is it always tiny? Why can’t it be a big voice that pesters the living daylights out of him with his own insecurities?) the tiny voice that’s been around since the day his father upped and walked out on his mother and him, that tiny voice that’s been telling him for a good decade or two, to just get away from it all, the tiny voice says, slowly, just as slowly as he, to stop, to stop thinking.

I’m trying to write, and failing.

I’m trying to love, and failing.

I’m trying to stop, and failing.

I’m trying to fail, and failing.

I’m trying to try, and failing.

I’ll stop. Now. That it’s all over.

Good game tomorrow. Shame I’ll miss it.

I’m hungry. How the hell am I hungry?

Words and printed type and my life just follow.

So, here’s how this works. I don’t know how it works. I’m tired. I need a shower. I smell. I’m hungry and I don’t know why. Tell me something, honey, tell me something…

I don’t why I was so weird before, and why I’m so normal now. Now, that I’m calm and breathing, calm and thinking. Do pictures of Ricky Meyer really make me go crazy, or is it the inevitable deterioration of my own mind that makes me go crazy. One or the other, this Japanese techno shit is good, I was going to go ‘lol’ but I decided against it.

Japanese shit is good.

The only thing I’ve ever been truthful to is my Microsoft word document. It never says anything back. The only thing I want now is my stuffed dog. It never says anything back either.

“So,” his voice is a slow, melodic drawl. She can’t see his eyes behind his sunglasses. She catches the can of soda with condensation clinging to the metal and feels the cold, wetness seep between her fingers. “So…”

He pops the tab and the soda hisses, short and crisp, and dies as he kisses the lip of the can. She can almost hear the carbon bubbling, fizzing, she opens her own. “So,” she mimics, “so, so.”

“So.” He replies, letting out a loud sigh of satisfaction, setting the can on the jet black roof of the car, blisteringly hot from the August sun.

“So.” She’s not willing to change the topic of conversation. They look at each other.

“So.”

The car doors click open, together. They sit down in the slightly warm, beige leather seats, together. She turns the ignition, he buckles his seat belt. She flicks the air conditioning on, he twists the radio for a station. She steps on the gas, he leans back and feels the cold air coming through the slits. The car moves, slowly, down the block and makes a turn on Canal. The vehicle moves with a sticky slowness down the Chinatown street, people and street vendors clog the scene, she is used to it.

Sometimes the stuff you think about seems so obvious, you’re surprised no one else thought of it first.

Smoke on the Water comes on, he drums his fingers to the riff. She listens.

6.9

I’m going to make you a thousand paper cranes.

One for every thing I love about you. One for every thing I wanted to say to you. One for every moment I spend thinking about you, though, I have to say, a thousand doesn’t do that number justice.

One for every thing you don’t love about me. One for every thing you never wanted to say to me. One for every moment you never spent thinking about me, though, I have to say, a thousand doesn’t do that number justice, either.

One for all the wasted opportunities, one for all the little glances and touches, one for all the things between us and one for everything else.

One for all the things I wish I would’ve done. One for all things that I wished I would’ve said. One for all things I wish that would’ve happened.

Sadomasochist

Mandarin Final – Study for on Tuesday, Wednesday

Physics Test – Study for today, Tuesday

Chem Regents – Study for in general, 17th

Math Regents – Study for in general, not a real problem

Yellow Book – Work on over week

Prufock Things – Do ‘em with the Yellow Book

Drafting Final Project – Just try to get it done, alright? With as many parts as we planned to have originally…..(and don’t forget to copy someone’s notes…>.<)

Epton Test – Speak to him, take it on Wednesday, or something…

Get a dress

Make Miles a DVD

Perhaps it’s good that I’ve found an outlet, making paper cranes, to my emotional needs. Makes the keyboard labor less, makes my mind labor less, sharpens my ability to concentrate, and to, inevitably, fold paper.

I mean, like really, really, really, really. Just, shush. I’ll deal with it. Deal with it. Deal with it.

5.2

I’m supposed to be going to a party. Eighty dollars on the table meant to buy her a present, write her a card (maybe), show up, hang out, do something. But I really don’t feel like going.

Basically, I’m going to spam bad writing till I come up with something good. I’m trying to overcome writer’s block, but it’s exceedingly difficult.

Okay, stop, breath, breath, breath, breath. One drink too less, something like that. Just calm the fuck down.

Am sleepy, can’t sleep, rather, don’t want to. Think of him every time I so much as attempt to sleep, bothered by fact.

Restless.

I’m so tired, my arms and limbs and everything, just aches. I LOST MY FUCKING PHONE! Damnit, and gave back that kid his DS, you know, karma? Whatever happened to that shit? Whatever happened to this karma shit, huh?

And you know, if you don’t keep a fucking eye on him, he just disappears, he just goes, it’s so fucking…..aggravating, tiring, I’m slowly dying, I think.

Well, so, I’m just too tired to fucking care. I’m just too tired to care. My grades, him, my phone, my…life….just too tiring, too tiring. And fucking physics SAT II. Shit, shit, shit. I’m through with everything except the necessities, like eating.

Puppies are the cutest things in the world.

God, that stupid fuck, had to shoot me in the neck.

The way I figure it, eventually I’m going to go take a shower, but I’m so dead tired, I might just pass out on the floor and wake up tomorrow early. There’s the faint residue of my paint on my fingers that I can’t seem to wash off no matter how hard I try. My clothes feel damp with sweat, stiff with dry paint and sticky with filth but I’m too tired to remove myself from these cumbersome bounds. I have work tomorrow. My hair feels pasty between my fingers, straw-like and awful with paint working in between my scalp and the individual strands. Every time I run my hand through my hair, I feel the bumps where the little paint pellets struck and it hurts for the brief moment of contact.

I’ve gotten used to, I suppose, the great outdoors. Pennsylvania, or the middle of nowhere, is not a place I’d like to live in. The wide expanse of sky, the utter silence of grass shifting in the wind, the stretches of pure white clouds and how picturesque, as if out of a book of photos in Barnes and Noble, everything sends a shiver of delight and horror down my spine, as I stand there, carrying my rental paintball gun, feeling the weight of my belt tug at my waist and the mask, resting, ill-fitted and resting along my noise, my cheeks, my forehead.

There’s something pleasant, calming, once you get used to it, about a place like New York. I find remote pleasure in the sea of bodies I swim in, in the jam packed subway cars and the crowded streets, the blaring horns and the open windows, the restaurants and shops and lights and the bellowing smoke from the subterranean mysteries, the orange clad workers, the cones and the taxis, a marvel of civilization, these things we’ve built armed with our opposable thumbs and knowledge, which, eventually, I surmise, may be our downfall. Temperament, is a scary thing.

She is a scary thing. I know not what to think of her. I’ll let her be I suppose and just speak my mind. It irks me. Really.

Today, the students of my foreign exchange class performed a play. They’ve been working very ardently, trying their best to put on the best performance for their parents and teachers. Staying after school many days of the week, my classmates built an impressive set.

7.2

So, I met this kid my sophomore year who taught me the meaning of unrequited love. And then, I met this kid my sophomore year who taught me the meaning of actual love.

Not really sure anymore. This Japanese techno thing is claming, calming, ha. I’m too tired, brain dead, going to go insane. Going to go insane in a really calming, claming way. I like him. Yeah. Whatever. Gotta wake up. Gotta pack. Gotta study. Gotta read.

Forgot the other thing I was going to say.

Oh well.

The way life works out, it’s really funny. Because you write down all of this shit and you think about all of this shit and you tell someone all of this completely random shit, but the when the shit really happens, you’re not inclined, I’m not inclined to say a damn word about any of it. Not a single flipping word about anything to anyone. It’s like every developed into some sort of a state secret and my life is no like a tabloid newspaper of painfully unrequited love. It’s like, my life suddenly has purpose and my life is suddenly life. Or, is it just something completely unremarkable, something completely natural and normal and sane, to be where I am right now and nowhere else?

It’s all a really “What the fuck do I do now?” sorta moment and I have no answer to the damn question and that in it self is miserably painful. Thursday, or tomorrow, actually, is the semifinal game with Germany and Turkey? I hope they do alright.

Someone’s going to see you and they’re going to be like what the fuck?

I profess to some literary talent, but that’s only to save myself from the inevitable failure that is my life.

Times like this I wish he’d shut up.

That’s pretty much it. My life in a can of tuna fish. And the funny thing is, she can probably hear my keyboard, which is another annoying thing. Did I mention I no longer have doors? And this internet is a bitch, and I don’t want to deal with it, but it insists on not leaving me alone and it insists on dying every once in a while. I pray that I be some figment of some fanciful dream.

Gosh, the world is a weird place.

I’m lacking the will to type, type, type about my problems, but I have a lot of them. Whatever it is I thought I had for him, I lost it. Like a needle in a haystack, I’m going to have to find it all over again.

Mine, my boy. I have one of those now, another one, I should say. But, I can call him my boy, mine, all mine and be certain of it. It’s a strange, strange feeling, but I think I’ll get used to it. (God, I hope he makes it back alive.)

I don’t feel quite like telling anyone, because it’s nice just knowing that he’s there, and no one else needs to know. It’s a secret, it’s a definite secret that no one shall know but us, it’ll just be like that, just like that.

I miss him only when people bring him up in conversation. And people have a tendency to do it quite often, but now that it is all over, I’m alright. I’m all right.

He was a pleasant thing to have around I must say, a pleasant thing to have around.

When I think Call of Duty 4, when I think physics, when I think tall, blond, German kids, when I think freshman year, when I think ninth period free, when I think of flower stems, when I think of him, I shall remember.

And, here I am, after that wonderful proclamation, I’m writing about him all over again. Damn. Damn. Damn.

Hear his voice one last time, have him pull my hair just one last time, look up to speak to him because he’s a foot taller than me just one last time. Just one last time, like some forsaken lover, or something.

A brief moment in passing, just one last time, of someone, something, some whatever that I found endearingly beautiful.

Well, this is goodbye. Goodbye, goodbye, goodbye. No more shall I think of you, no more shall I ponder, no more shall I lust and wonder where thou heart lies, where thou mind sleeps, no more, no more, no more shall I traverse on the edge of peril, the lip of a doomed fate, no more, no more, for this is goodbye.

It’s a bit weird, but the best part of that lighter is the noise it makes. When it opens, when it snaps shut, when it opens, when it snaps shut, when it opens, when it snaps shut. The noises things make are just so tempting, so good, so smooth and smooth and shut.

You know, honest to god, I don’t feel like forgetting him. I don’t feel like letting go of him, though I really should. It’s terrible, the way I feel, right now, but god, I don’t want to loose a single bit, a single itty bitty what have you of my unfortunate feelings. I’m not even sure if it’s directed towards him, or I just feel better showering my unrelenting emotional distress on something tangible as opposed to an anime character with gorgeous hair and light blue eyes, or the one with black hair and black eyes and goes snap snap and lights shit on fire. Maybe, I don’t know, I can’t even gauge my own feelings anymore, love is like cocaine, like heroin, like smoking, like drugs, it’s like a fucking drug that I can’t get off of. I’m addicted to loving Ricky Meyer. Am I? Possibly, possibly not. It’s just strange, how I feel right now. It’s like stepping on the fine line between the past and future and the present is a dream that I can’t interpret, a hazy dream that I’m having.

And so the world turns and turns and turns and that comic strip gives me so much hope, and yet I feel like a loser.

This is the way the world works, I was told, that I couldn’t do anything about the wars, about the deaths, about the thousand other things that marred this planet and its people. And I could care less.

Call it ignorance or what have you, I’m willing to ride my grudge out against the world in a really fucking masochistic fashion

July 1st, 4:23 AM, she checks her watch.

“So,” lady with a clipboard, a stern look and a well chewed ballpoint pen begins, “what are your credentials?” At this point, he was tempted to say none, no credentials whatsoever.

Miller is caught in a dream. He is groping thin air as he falls into a vortex of bad childhood memories. His sixth birthday, he almost drowned in the pool. His senior prom, he kissed a girl he didn’t like just so he could know what it felt like. His high school graduation, he almost tripped on stage to get his diploma, Marsha Willson laughed. He lands on a soft bed of flowers, flowers as black as night, as stunning as death, a perniciousness that he couldn’t resist.

The slow, twittering breeze of the fan gives her Goosebumps, tickles her almost sunburned skin and moves along. She is sitting on the front porch, the August heat enveloping her lithe and nimble body, brittle and fragile, her thin ankles and loose wrists, her freckles and lopsided carrot pigtails. In her hand, a dripping ice cream pop, her tongue, like a frog, works fast to lick up the rolling beads of artificial blue.

Her brother watches with perverted pleasure as his blossoming sister takes the entire length of the ice cream pop into her mouth. Her kittenish noises, her tenuous eyelids stretch over her earthy green eyes as the blueberry treat slowly retracts from her mouth, a delicate line of saliva runs from the corner of her mouth to the pop.

Incest occurs to him for the first time and he feels like a toddler, uneducated and lost in the world of sexual deviancy. Below her formless sundress, he sees her tiny nipples, and imagines them pink, ripe, hard, like bug bites. Below the yellow and green patterned fabric, he imagines the feel of underwear, a slight dampness, perhaps.

He can’t touch her. He won’t touch her. Her little tongue, a pink, fleshy wonder emerges from behind her gates of teeth, gently licking at the tip of the pop. He moans, a little louder than he should and feels himself hardening, glad that they are home alone. She begins to suck, rhythmically. In, out, in, out, trails of blue on her tongue, her saliva coating the blue pop, he hears the noises of her work through the screen door and wonders if the innocent little thing on the porch knows the evils and desires she stirs within him.

Right, can we just not talk about it? Sure. Alright.

I want to bump into him, at some point or another, late in life, and just tell him everything.

5.20

The one duty we owe to

history is to re-write it.

– Oscar Wilde

MAKE HISTORY

Vote Kat Zi

for

Junior Caucus 08-09

The night before I saw you last…

I tried writing you a couplet

It didn’t go too well

So I’ll just tell you

That maybe

I love you

Couplets aren’t really my thing

I doubt you really care

Whether or not

I like you

Whatever

I thought a couplet might’ve been easier

Telling you might’ve been

Easy, maybe, too

Wouldn’t hurt

To try?

Couplet or not, matters not, in the end

What happened, happened

I won’t ever, really

See you any

More, so

Bye.

Here’s the couplet I never wrote for you

Here’s all the things I’ve never said

Here’s all the things that

I wish would’ve

Happened.

I love you? Maybe?

I AM TOTALLY OVER HIM. SHUT IT. NOW.

How sick at heart I am? How sick at heart I am. Oh, but, but, the fact that with a single click the distance that separates my aching heart from satisfaction is so easily in reach…

Okay, get over it. Get over it. Command. Get over it. NOW.

Cmon, cmon, cmon, cmon, cmon, cmon. Stop. Shut up. Let it goooo. Let all of it just go.

STOP, STOP THINKING ABOUT IT.

Okay, I know the feeling. I know the feeling. It might just be your period, or you might really miss, or might have really loved him, I don’t really know, but kid, kid, kid, kid, stop. STOP THINKING ABOUT IT. Let it go.

Please.

Because I don’t like it any more than you do.

I don’t like sitting next to Alex and having a gaping hole where the love of my life used to be.

I don’t like going to school on Monday and knowing that between third and fourth I won’t run into him (OR MILES) and maybe during 7th, I’d catch him going out to lunch with one of his silly friends and during 8th, not having him sit next to me, to do all the little weird things we do in class, to distract me long enough to have me fail, to distract me long enough so that I sit at home and type about him like a retard. And that, 9th period, he won’t be there anymore either. He won’t be in the back of the library, with his stupid computer and his stupid stupid stupid everything.

Can we stop feeling like we’re going to throw up?

English Final Project

Okay, so basically, here you have this kid, FREDERIC Blanc (don’t laugh at the blatant reference to a certain someone) who is a narcissistic asshole (and don’t laugh at this blatant reference to a mythological figure) who lives in Paris. He’s a pretty little French boy, with the most gorgeous blond hair (you can start laughing now) and the most delicate blue irises, an ungodly shade of an unearthly color, so rich and so deep, so mesmerizing women are to said to have simply fallen in love with from a single glance (laugh, you bastards, laugh).

And here you have NICHOLAS Tremble (this is a less blatant reference to Nyx, laugh anyways), who falls in love with Ric-I mean FREDERIC, who completes scorns the guy because he is in love with PERSEPHONE Faye, the daughter of some rich nobleman who is, like, the Paris Hilton of 1884 Paris. Of course, NICHOLAS is a retard and is mournfully heartbroken.

Oh, right, NICHOLAS meets FREDERIC while hunting and NICHOLAS has a big thing for guns and weaponry and all that nice technologic what have you’s of the 1884, think Crystal Palace and whatever (fine, NICHOLAS is…now…uh, British). And so, as a parting gift of sorts, FREDERIC buys him a French flintlock dueling pistol (retard) and sends him off happily on his way, or so FREDERIC thinks.

In the meanwhile, PERSEPHONE’s parents arrange for her to be married to some random guy, AIDAN Leroy (yet another reference), who is like the Renaissance man of Paris at the time, he does, quite literally, everything, hunt, fish, swim, duel, draw, paint, write poetry, sing, dance, plays three different instruments and has a cult of women following him everywhere he goes.

In the meanwhile, NICHOLAS, having seen FREDERIC flirt with PERSEPHONE and all that nice noise, is more heartbroken and kills himself on FREDERIC’s doorstep with the pistol he was gifted and pleads to the heavens for divine retribution. FREDERIC, slightly shaken by the whole event, is the talk of the town and people give him really odd looks and PERSEPHONE’s parents totally hate him.

Did I mention Freddy has a thing for mirrors? And built himself a hall of mirrors, like that of Versailles? And he ponders up and down his hallways just starring at himself.

Then, Freddy finally learns that his beloved PERSEPHONE is going to be married off to AIDAN. Of course, he gets ridiculously angry and even angrier after PERSEPHONE is seen spending more and more time with AIDAN. After having a chat with Eris, one of his friends, who jokingly suggests just simply killing AIDAN because she, too, was scorned by the Adonis (haha, get it?) of 1880’s Paris, FREDERIC takes up the proposition and plots to kill Mr. Renaissance Man.

Instead of hiring a mercenary, or something smart, FREDERIC goes and seduces KERES Charron (not a reference, I swear), a servant in AIDAN’s house. The girl is so completely and devastatingly in love with FREDERIC that she’s willing to do absolutely anything, and boy do I mean anything, for him. So one night, he brings up the idea of hey, why don’t we kill your lord and master because I said so! And because he is the only obstacle to our deep, deep, deep love? The latter is most definitely a lie but she goes and she kills AIDAN anyway, with, gee, let’s guess, a flintlock dueling pistol and comes back to FREDERIC covered in blood with a loaded gun in hand. After having celebratory sex, or whatever, or something, KERES suffers this giant emotional breakdown and goes completely insane and in this really odd battle thing, argument (after the sex) FREDERIC just shoots her (dipshit) and gets one of his servants, ALDRIC (more obscure references), to dump the body into the Seine on a misty morning.

The kid is not so torn up over the death of KERES, but rather, that he might be incriminated for murder and what not, but is comforted by his gorgeous reflections in each and every one of his beautiful, gigantic mirrors lining the entirety of his home now, every single room, mirrors and mirrors. And his servants are no longer allowed to walk around the house without a mask because their reflections are so inferior to his. His lifestyle becomes more and more decadent and exuberant as he spends his fortune on random pieces of furniture, tea cups, weird, useless technology, silks, oriental mysteries, his house, his mansion, his so called palace with a beauty and expansiveness to rival that of Versailles, as the stories go, flourishes. Giant fountains, gardens, flowers, marble staircases. FREDERIC, after murdering KERES, becomes slightly insane himself, imagining his life story to be that of the gods, his home is not Paris, it is not even Earth, but it is the heavens up above, Mount Olympus, only the gods can rival his beauty, his brilliance.

After AIDAN is found dead in his house, PERSEPHONE is crushed and crying and sad and weeping and weeping and as it so happens, bumps into FREDERIC at AIDAN’s gigantic funeral, chock full of other weeping women with a gigantic procession of spider lilies from FREDERIC (him and his obsession of the orient and yet another reference). They go back to his home, with all of its mirrors and for a brief moment, PERSEPHONE is amazed by the wondrous display. They also proceed to fornicate in the middle of all his mirrors (American Psycho) and FREDERIC looks up every now and then to admire his beautiful reflection. PERSEPHONE, slightly annoyed by his constant narcissistic weirdness jokes that he should look at her instead, after all, she’s so much prettier. This really ticks off Freddy more than it should, his beauty insulted and what you have. He finds a letter opener somewhere and in this awful fit of rage (or, crime of passion) stabs PERSEPHONE to death a million times.

And at the end of it all, he’s left, covered in blood, naked, a total mess with a look of absolute vulgarity across his beautiful visage and he starts having flashbacks of the night KERES killed AIDAN, the way she looked, the way she looked when he was in her, the way she looked when he told ALDRIC to toss her into the Seine. Then he looks down and see PERSEPHONE, face covered by her once beautiful chocolate hair, smeared in blood across her naked breasts, rich, warm blood oozing slowly across the cold marble floor from the gashes on her body, her limp hands twitching slightly and suddenly he felt the urge to vomit, to regurgitate his sins and wash his hands of this spilled blood. He sees no exit, just mirrors, mirrors upon mirrors upon mirrors, every room he ran to, footsteps trailing blood, every hallway, every possible crevice covered by his own reflection, a reflection of absolute madness.

He bursts out into his garden, with all the fountains and lilies, which he had received as a gift from Eris (who traveled to Japan) and had planted so happily because of their rich color that had reminded him of blood, along with red poppies and blood red roses (man had a thing for red flowers, neh?). And all he could see, letter opener in blood-stained hand, was blood and more blood, seeping as it did across the marble, across the expanse of his garden, across the horizon as a wine red sunset fell lugubriously across the sky. And suddenly, he shrieks, utterly loosing his mind, what little sanity he has left and in an attempt to escape from this nightmare, tears across the blood soaked garden and leaps into the fountain in effort to cleanse him soul. All he sees, instead, is another reflection of himself.

PERSEPHONE’s parents are going nuts looking for her because she hasn’t returned home and has left no word. ADRASTEIA Tailler, a long time secret lover (by that I mean stalker) of FREDERIC, tells them that she has seen them walking together, towards his home, after the funeral. The parents send the police over and the first thing they see is the naked, bloody corpse of their daughter and her reflection in a billion mirrors. They find FREDERIC later, rolling around half naked in his fountain, mind broken and muttering absolute gibberish, suffering from a hypnagogic fit.

As the police attempt to constrain him, he screams, imagining that Hynpos and Thanatos, the twin brothers of death and sleep are here to take him to Tartarus, to suffer the same fate as Tantalus or whoever else happens to be stuck for an eternity in Tartarus. Instead, Nyx, night, appears (ADRASTEIA in real life) and comforts him and offers him solace in Elysium. Following the comforting voice of the dark goddess, FREDERIC quiets and is led away to an asylum. ADRASTEIA visits him nightly and nightly he is haunted by the nightmare of his own savage reflection, the beauty that he once possessed and the maimed, blood corpses of those he had murdered, his own eternal damnation, NICHOLAS Faye’s plea for divine retribution finally find its way to him. FREDERIC Blanc, being a man of rather remarkable, dies slowly and miserably of old age in the Paris asylum, dreaming, a gift of Morpheus, of mirrors and the decay of human nature.

The Blanc estate is said to be abandoned, the gardens unkempt and the fountain dry. Nicknamed the House of Thousand Mirrors, many of them broken, it’s still a hot subject of debate among the gossip artists of Paris as to exactly what happened in the curious mirrored house. By some strange force of nature, spider lilies, not a native plant of Paris, blossom yearly between the cracks in the blood stained marble floor, covered in shards of glass, where Persephone Faye met her death.

And, so….and, so…

Dr. Mr. Joe Klein,

Hi, my name is Zi Lin. I am a sophomore attending Stuyvesant High School. I’m writing to you, much like many of my fellow classmates and peers, regarding the budget cuts. I’m not writing to you to be rebellious, I’m not writing to you because I’m outraged, I’m not even writing to you because I want change, but Mr. Klein, I’m writing to you because I’m scared. I’m scared of something that I hold dear, something I’ve come to love (and hate), something that I am proud to be apart of, something that I’m willing to call my home, my family, my life is in danger. I’m scared of walking into school next September and having only eight periods of academic classes. I’m scared of walking into my club meeting only to learn that it’s been cancelled due to budget cuts. I’m scared of not having enough money for my teams to attend conferences and tournaments. I’m scared of not being able to chat to underclassmen about how fun, and how hard, an AP class is because it’s no longer being offered. I’m scared when education, something so vital and something so important, something that America holds pride in, is being tossed in the back seat in the face of fiscal and political power play.

The loneliness of just being is a strange thing.

The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock is hardly a love song as the title suggests. In fact, J. Alfred Prufrock hardly seems the type to dwell as such a subject as romantic love, much less write a song about it. J. Alfred Prufrock, simply judging by the name, brings to mind an elderly gentlemen, perhaps someone’s grandfather, someone who is worn by the whetstone of time, perhaps a veteran of the Great War, someone a watched a generation of his friends, brothers and peers die in the war torn battlefields of Europe, someone who is weary, someone who is tired, someone who is on the inside looking out, someone who exists purely for the sake of existing, with nothing special, nothing spectacular, nothing brilliant left to shine in his life, someone neglected by the careful graces of fortune and devious hands of fate, someone completely, and most painfully, ordinary. When a man like J. Alfred Prufrock takes up the task of writing a love song, one expects something strange. An explosion of caged emotion like a dam bursting free, a torrent of his thoughts and longings, an explanation of who he is, or who he wanted to be, some sort of a confession almost. Unless one has read the poem before, just by the title alone, it’s hard to gauge what exactly Eliot’s poem is about and first stanza does nothing to help.

At this point, really I’m ready to cry. There’s one, two and three. And all of them bother the living day lights out of me. And four, but four’s a friend, a great friend, I love him, and I hope he does well in Vegas. One, one, well, I’m done and over with one. Nice kid, I’m going to miss him. Stupid kid, stupid, stupid kid (on crutches), I’m going to, actually, miss him a lot. I’m not going to be able to walk down the same hallways and not look for him. I’m going to sit in class and not think, occasionally, about where he is, what and who he’s doing or not doing, and just, and just, he’s like a really bad after taste that you can’t get rid of, but god, it was so worth it. Or not, or not. I hate everything. And two, two, two, two, two, two…I love him? Almost, sort of? Perhaps? Will find time to sort out his particular mess. Three. I feel bad. But I can’t help it. SHUT UP, STOP, I JUST MISS RICKY MEYER. Stupid kid.

I’m worried, I’m sick, I’m tired, I have the beginnings of a tiresome headache building, escalading. I’m sick and I’m tired, I’m sick and I’m tired, two different things that plague the day to day meanderings of my life. I wish it would all just go away, dissolve like sugar in tea, milk in coffee, cream and cherry pits and I wish and I wish everything would just go away.

You know, you know, you know, you know, kid it’s okay, but it’s really not. You know, I’m going to completely fucking insane in a little short while and it’d be completely his fault. By which I mean, my fault.

My fucking problem. ALL OF IT.

FUFKC FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK ALL OF IT GOD

GODDAMNIT GODDAMNIT GODDAMNIT

STOP GO AWAY

SO

He went away, you don’t have to go away ,it’s fine,it’s fine, it’s fine, it’s nso fuccking not. Omgf god, goddamnit, goddamnit, goddamn it

I hate him, I don’t even miss him, I just hate that this, I do all of this for this this guy, is this really life, lik wasting time on something SO TUPID AS YOU

K(D YOU!!

Go die somewhere I hate everything Ihate Facebookk, Ihave pictures, Ihate AIM I hate you,. You know who you are, or should by now. I hate not being able to see the Potugal Germany game, I hate hate hjate hate just being. JUST BEING SUCKS. I HATE LIVVING. LIVING FUCKING PAINFUL!!! LIKE PAINFUL

Why, I need a sedative. Omg, omg, omg, omg, stop, stop stop stop stop shut up shut up, stop stop stop fucking thinking so stop

I can’t feel my fucking arms, I cant’s top thinking about him, I can’t stop seeing in my head, does he love me OF COURSE NOT and that’s why it hruts, like, like, like, a lot

GODDAMn

Why is everything so miserable

Why do I feel like weeping

Why can’t I bring myself to do so is entirely understandable

I get everything, I get everything,

The pain is the understanding

Of course, pain, truth hurts like a motherfucker

Goddamn

And that feeling, in the pit of stomach, right before a speech round, right before I see him, right after I see him, right after I run all the lines of dialogue passed between me and him, and the fleeting moment before he walked out of my forever and ever (and damn, kid, it’ll be eternity before I actually admit to you I love you! So, shut it!), it’s just that one feeling. And I feel like dying. In the worst way possible, whatever way it happens to be.

It’s like being. Shot there. Right there. So, it hurts, a lot. And I’m done. Done, done, done, but not.

Spam with Abu, somewhere, an endless night of my love. An endless line of sight down the hall of my misery. Find me somewhere, where I am myself and no one else. And hopefully no one will ever see this little piece of me, that’s going completely off the rode of sanity, burrowing, like a rabbit down, down, down, down, down, down, down, some road not so often traveled. Kill me? Will ya? Do me a favor.

The completely unbearable-ness of being.

I MISS YOU

I FEEL LIKE CRYING

I SHOULD’VE SAID SOMETHING

The story of my life, I cry, for no apparent reason everyday, but I don’t.

He didn’t mean that much to me, I’d say. But I’m crying over a photo. I’m not, but I feel like I should. Do I even want to remember him, for crying out loud, no pun intended.

I hate being a teenager. I hate not being taken seriously. I hate my emotional discontentment, which is a direct result of my inability to loose weight and exercise. The rest of my life, they say, depends on these very ephemeral years. I think they’re lying to me. I have time to find out, but no so much. I get the angst, I get why they tell it’s a phase, I’ll pass out of it. But for the while that I’m here, for the while that I’m stuck between everything (think one of those adventure movies, where the walls with the large spikes are closing in and they’re all screaming and escape by a hair’s width from death, except, where’s the movie magic in my life) I’d like an explanation for this feeling of death in my chest. Am I looking down the barrel of life? Waiting for someone to fire a shot, waiting to wake from the dream of adolescence, like a butterfly rising from cocoon and face everything I’ve been warned about?

It’s all just my fault. You can go.

I don’t want to.

Suit yourself.

I’m staying.

You really don’t have to, you really shouldn’t.

Stay.

I’m telling you to leave.

You’re going to regret it. I won’t leave this shithole for the all the money in the world.

That’s quite egotistical right there.

Aren’t we all that way?

True that, sir, true that.

Oh, honey, honey, honey, can we just…stop? Die, perhaps, a nice, calm death. Float like Ophelia.

I just drove my car into a brick wall. For some reason, I’m not dead. Should I be happy or sad, or just mildly disappointed that nothing I do ever work? Suicide, you awful bastard, you god awful bastard, you lied to me. I’ll cyanide next time.

I want to tear my own arms off, because I feel so numb, I need something to remind that I can still feel. I want to hear flesh tear and bones break, my own, preferably. I would like that, very much, very much, indeed. I want to feel the warmth of my own blood. I’d like to feel pain, immeasurable pain, pain, just pain, so I can stop feeling this pain. So I can stop feeling this pain…

Funny thing is, I’d probably be scared shitless afterwards. And call myself a dumbass forever.

I’d really prefer anything but this right now.

Someone do something.

I need someone more than anything.