Speech and Debate makes me emo….

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

 

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

 

So, honestly, what is it all about?

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

Never over.

 

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

 

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

 

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

Bow in the presence of greatness.

You should be honored by my lateness.

 

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

 

She’ll do anything for the limelight.

 

Bonus for anyone who can figure out the song.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

God put you in front of me

A thousand you’s only one of me

 

I’ll do anything for a blonde dyke

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

HURRY UP NOW I CAN’T WAIT MUCH LONGER

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

 

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

 

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

 

T-t-that don’t kill me.

Only makes me stronger.

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

“Fuck.”

“What?”

“My lighter, I lost my lighter.”

 

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

 

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

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

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

 

Rewrite, the song and the process

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

           

 

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

           

NaNoWriMo!! (I haven’t written a word….)

I haven’t written a word yet and it’s day three. God, my muse decides to ditch at the worst times. I’ve also got a physics test I’m fucked for on Monday. I’m trying to study, but I don’t really study. I’ve also discovered Pandora Radio, it’s great. My music selection is tiny and I need variety.

Anyways, I’ve also got to get my stupid TCG up and running, it’s like…not even up yet, not even born. So much shit I have to do. I’m cursing like hell in this post. I don’t usually even curse. Goddamn. Alright, I’m out for now. Haha.

Asian Kung-Fu Generation kicks ass, by the way.

Mondays are terrible…

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

 

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

 

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

A gloved hand held the fruit, teeth resting against the firm, smooth skin, a moment of hesitation, the sun in his eyes and the flutter of wings, he bit the apple. Enamel tour through the crisp flesh, filling his nostrils with a sweet scent that he had always been fond of. The other hand rested limply in the pocket of his pants, fingering loose change, a ticket stub and the single key to his apartment. He was standing too close to the platform, his mother would have a fit.

 

 

Thumb strikes the flint wheel, a flame whispers to life, lingers for a moment and vanishes as quickly as it had appeared,

 

Thumb struck the flint wheel, produced an ephemeral, whispering flame, lingered for a moment before vanishing as quickly as it had appeared, retracting into the darkness as the lighter snapped shut. Exhaling a satisfied puff smoke, he relished in its metallic chill and allowed gravity to sink the lighter, drifting to the bottom of his pocket. A thin, diaphanous wisp of smoke drifted toward the crisp September sky. His grey eyes following each movement, met the open heavens, scattered patches of clouds and stillness in the air that accompanied autumn afternoons. The station platform was empty, a vast expanse of loneliness upon which he stood, smoking, brooding, waiting.

            The cigarette, caught between his index and middle finger, moved slowly to his lips, hovered there for a moment, the flutter of wings and a ghost from his memories, he inhaled. Had a habit of mumbling with a hand and cigarette over his lips, of slouching because he never enjoyed his height, of fiddling with things in his pocket, of standing too close to the platform edge, his mother would yell at him, of being impatient, but he was waiting now. He made her a promise, didn’t he? He’d wait for her, and so, he’s waiting. A pained smirk, of all the promises to keep

           

So, he’s back from camp and he changed…

I think I’m going to melt, the mere sight of your cobalt irises, spiked with daggers of green, the ringlets of your golden, honey colored hair, the silk of your dress falling gently on the curves of your body as twirl and twirl beneath the ghostly white moon. If only I could pour my heart and soul, like water fro a pitcher, a shimmering mess of my emotions, into your hands, letting it seep between your fingers, if only I could show you how my heart trembles and weeps and breaks and swoons, if only you could see how your smile strangles me, if only you could see how this love ails me so, if only you could love me.

 

I’m a bit of a melodramatic fool; comes with the job, goes with the job, probably is the job. To blow everything incredibly out of proportions and to expect that a round peg fits into a square hole. One of these, I’m just going to give up and ram the damn peg into the hole, hell with fitting in, I’m out of place wherever I go. That’s that and that’s all there ever will be. I’m satisfied and oddly content with squandering the rest of my over analyzing Japanese anime. It’s a good life, what’s wrong with being independent? I’ll tell you what’s wrong, the world wants conformity, the world wants a nice square peg to shove into the nice square hole. Problems arise when the peg is round. What’s wrong with being independent? I’m not going to get what I want. Playing the game will set me free? I think not, I’ll just be dragged down, sink into the quagmire that is life. That’ll be that, my melodramatic fool. Farewell, farewell.

 

 

A Darker Than Black Snippet

According to episode 20, the only real difference between contractors and humans are their mental makeups. Contractors, their powers aside, are just people with a better grasp of reality, an emotional rationality that enables them to advance in life. They’re a tier above humans on the evolutionary ladder, better tailored to exploit the nature of life. Is life just about rationality and getting ahead, or are the mistakes and regrets we make as humans the reason why life is worth living? Maybe things like atonement, forgiveness, despair, love and dreams exist because we’re human. I said somewhere before, I think, that contractors and dolls and the Gate were like punishments, maybe they’re more like gifts.

 

Because it’s too short for a good post on my anime blog and I haven’t the mind to make it longer….