NEW YORK CARES

NYC SEARCH PARTY
I never want to leave this place and I am sad thinking about going home. I need to find a way to live here. And fuck, I knew I'd feel this way once I got here.
Harsh reality fucking blows.

Sitting Alone By The Window

"If Death--who was out there all the time, possibly sitting on the hood--if Death stepped miraculously through a glass and came in after you, in all probability you just got up and went along with him, ferociously but quietly."

J.D. Salinger from Raise High the Roof Beam, Carpenters and Seymour an Introduction

Oh no

It's childish but I can't say it's alright. I'm out of campus, chattering teeth, in the most cowardice position of an arrogant little shit. I would live in my cave if life would allow me. This fucking thing. Am I dead yet?

Sunken City

Disclaims: Just realized a chunk of my blog was deleted and this was part of the elimination. Sad.

It was before we ever needed to take our heads up in the sky. It was a warm summer night and we laughed beside each other. We began to walk the train tracks, saw a dead fox, circled around its rotting flesh, then proceeded to the night. We didn’t know how long the walk was and we didn’t know exactly what we were walking for. There’d be hours of silence, hours of scattered conversations, and hours of staring down at our feet stumbling on the tracks. Ace, Mak, and I wore Jordan’s best friend’s shoes, four sizes too large for our feet. They felt like flippers, but we didn’t care. It was peaceful. Insects were fucking around with our limbs, and we were soon to find dozens of mosquito bites in all corners of our bodies the next morning. The tracks varied in all smells atrocious and unforgettable. The swamps lingered heavily and humidly. Mud, dead creatures, and the worn off scents of the girls’ summer perfumes. I remember being wrapped up in my thoughts, content and undisturbed. I was satisfied with the walk, with my friends, and with myself. 

 Roman spotted a train from miles away. We waited patiently and steadily. I walked near Mak, Jordan, and Karen. Ace walked ahead with Cody and Roman. As the train came to a near, we stepped off the tracks and slowly walked beside the approaching train. Up ahead I saw Ace, Cody, and Roman descend from the tracks, conversations loud and excited. The train sped right beside us, so we stopped, stared at the blurring speed of the train, and just stood there. I smiled at the thrill of the speed, of the satisfying standstill of that hour, of the warm sinking of my memory embedding. I looked ahead and saw Roman jump and Cody and Ace. They glorified. From hundreds of feet behind them, I felt their moment of happiness and gleamed. Their smiles screaming sincere, with no hesitation from our daily and superficial concerns. They looked like the innocence of childhood and of youth, huddled into their coincidental and silent agreement to hold each other excitedly. My god, we were invincible then. I looked at each face near me. I saw centered smiles and the will to continue a walk to nowhere. A walk to a city that sunk below us. 

 When we arrived at our supposed destination, we denied disappointment by never having an expectation at all. We saw roofs above swamps, abandoned houses, and the art of some street soul decorating the deteriorating walls. We didn’t find much of interest. We idly looked around, sunk in the view of this sunken city, then turned back around. We walked another long set of hours, this time in all silence. By the time we reached midway, the sun peeked from the hills. We walked peacefully, at our own pace, watching the morning cows and the morning sky.

crs n jam

For the passed few weeks, I had been getting closely acquainted with a few people in my class. In fact, I see them more than I see anyone anymore. We spend hours at school, then hours more after school because I benefit from studying with them and we are always grouped together for projects. We eat and distract each other from our work. We laugh too loudly and exchange racist jokes. They like my stupid face and I like how vulgar the things that come out of their mouths are. I didn't think I'd get along so well with anyone in there but here I am making new friends and being completely comfortable and satisfied about it. Undeniably, they give me a reason to want to be in school. I no longer take the opportunity to quiet everything with my BALLINNNNN' headphones. They yell at me like they're my parents and I am their retard baby that struggles to pass the fucking class. Today, Jamila told me that Cristelle wished for me to pass the class when blowing her birthday candles. I don't do well with showing appreciative  and gushy emotions but I really did soften to that one. I said 'DAWWWW' and quietly appreciated them more. It's nice to have friends ok. IT'S FUCKING NICE AND IT MAKES THINGS OK. 

They tight, they tight. 

Batting Cans

The usual disclaimer: I wrote this when I was on a streak of writing stories based on my friends. It's been months and I still can't finish the second part of it. I figured though, that it's time to share this one. 

Part I. 

My phone rang on the nightstand. It was 2am and my TV flickered a movie that I’d memorized every line to. She was a blonde. She was short and wasn’t beautiful, but I felt I deserved it.

     “Hello?”

     “Can I come over?” her voice finding a casual composure.

     I hesitated for a moment because I understood that it will be another mistake but I had no arguments to stop myself with.

     “Sure.”

     “I’ll be there in thirty,” she hung up knowing I’d say nothing more.

     I thought about the anticipation that thirty minutes would leave me with. Maybe a silence that offered me an imagination of what my night will follow. The TV went on and I zoned to the darkness of her under me.

     She knocked after twenty and saved me from my anxieties. I walked to the door, opened it, and found her back turned away. She turned around shyly; playing with her blonde strands loose from whatever day she’s had.

     “Hi,” I managed and began a smile that suggested nothing.

     She smiled in return and proceeded inside my house. It only took her a few steps into my living room till she slowed and paused to what I assumed were her own anticipation for regrets. She turned to me and smiled anyway.

     I was awkward and lacked any initiative. Then I wished she knew what to do with me so I can follow on what to do with her.

     “I was just watching a movie.”

     “In your room?”

     “Yes,” so I played that opportunity to head to my room and she followed behind me, clutching on the purse on her shoulder and finding more smiles in her to offer me.

     We were childish.

     We were amateurs.

     I thought about offering her a drink but we were already in my room and she was already sitting on my bed, waiting for me to make my advances. But I didn’t. I sat beside her and the bed moved with our tension. I felt immovable for a moment as I tried to face her.

     Shit.

     We had nothing to say and she knew that. She giggled then leaned into me for a kiss. It was slow and intent. I kissed her back urgently for a second then I stretched for the lamp on my nightstand and clicked it off.

     The darkness found us naked and insignificantly less tense. We took our clothes off as we kissed. I was easing into excitement and began to act more myself. She was smiling in between kisses, excited to finally have what she’s wanted from me.

     Under the sheets, we slid against each other. I threw the pillows on the floor and realized I’d left the TV on. I thought about turning it off but it meant it would only be her and me. So I left it on and took comfort in its background, knowing I’d remember which lines would distract me from all this.

     We were only kissing, her hands on my cock as her mouth began to move sloppily against mine. She was sucking on my neck and moving downwards. On top of me, with the sheets sliding off her back, she was frantic. She found me down there, risen to her mouth all over me. Then for a while I laid back and watched her head bob in front of the movie that I memorized so well.

     She went up for air and I reached into my nightstand, fishing for a condom. Before I could open it, she took it out of my hand.

     “It’s OK, I got the shot.”

     “Are you sure?”

     “Yeah.”

     “Alright, but if you get pregnant I’ll have to punch you in the face.”

     She laughed not knowing how inconspicuously sincere I tend to be.

     We kissed again and she threw the condom on the floor next to the pillows. Immediately, she rode me. She was on a mission, hair a mess and faces of no avail. My hands were on her hips, gripping to the sight of her tits bouncing in front of me, completely blocking my movie now.

     Panting and moaning, she rode till we began to sweat. She was consistent and persistent, eager for me to come. I simply let her fuck me, let her do what she wanted to do with me, let her be who she needed to be. Her version of a breather was leaning to me for a kiss while she grinded slowly. Heavy breaths, a grind, and my hands grabbing on to her ass.

     I came, eventually, and she slowed to a halt then rolled over beside me. If she finished, it was none of my concerns. My movie was over and the credits lined up. Pillowless, we both stared up at my ceiling and panted together. I heard her mouth pull back a smile so I thought it appropriate to pull back a smile as well.

     She got up and flipped her head left and right for her clothes. She was feeling through the darkness so I reached for my lamp again and turned it on. The light brought back our tension and she was pulling on her clothes. I sat up and tried not to watch her bare back as she fought with her jeans. Then her shirt was on and I slid off the bed to put on my shorts and a shirt. She turned to me and smiled to tell me she was ready to go.

     We walked out of my room and through my house with the forgettable satisfaction of the night. She kissed me under the doorway, a quick thank you kiss or whatever she wanted to leave me with. Again she smiled but I was tired and out of smiles so I closed the door behind her then walked back to my room where I restarted my movie and waited for sleep.

     

BEAT

For the passed few days, I have been meaning to sit the fuck down and get my thoughts together. I mean, create something new. But I was at Berkeley today for clinicals and I can actually feel the exhaustion melting out of me. In fact, I can feel the exhaustion of the passed few months just spilling out of my body. Weekends are becoming more brief than the last. My constant need for more time in the day has never before been so insistent. Now that I have no time to spare, I crave the ease of doing nothing. When I had time to read books of my liking and write things out of utter boredom. Although, I must say, I turn myself on with this inexplicable infidel-reminiscent yearning to write. Ever since I decided to become a nurse and have run out of time to exist as myself, I get these unpredictable bursts of streaming ideas and I write them the fuck down. They're not all good but I end up stealing away study time just to finish certain pieces that get me caught up. Yeee, it feels like I'm cheating on my own life. Being in this nursing program is like being engaged to a girl that I knocked up. Writing is like the one that got away but I somehow met again after I'd already been engaged. Right now, I feel like I'm cheating on my fiancee with the one that got away. I'm reaching that point where I'm torn between staying with my fiancee because we are about to have a kid and it's the right thing to do or leave my fiancee before I go through with the wedding and be happy with the one that got away. But I'm too much of a coward to make a decision so I'm just dickriding on the simple and nearly-satisfying pleasure of stealing time with my Great White Buffalo. It's exciting, ok. And I don't know how this got so fucking gay but... 

ye. 

Fuck Off

Fucking waste.

Pallid

A post from the 9th of May, 2011

Of all my innocuous decisions and silly whims, I think wallowing was my personal and ridiculous favorite. I think forcing myself to feel sad and lay in bed and listen to pretty little songs can convince me enough that there is something going on inside me. Something greater than anger or greed or something more profound, I think. It all makes sense, this nonsense, why I always get myself tangled in some raveled affairs. If it doesn't make me feel nothing, it makes me feel angry. And if not angry, then it makes me feel greedy. And if not greedy, then I feel something more profound, I think. And if not something more profound, then nothing. Nothing at all. All over again. Affairs are the funniest things. They're clever really. They become some unspoken and unknown section in your seemingly complete life. They're affairs after all. Kept hidden is best possible. But you make noises, you know. Buried under blankets and pillows that aren't yours. And noises are sounds that may or may not be heard. But they're still sounds. Which means someone always knows. Always. 

 There's one beaming flaw as a participant in some of my then affairs. I tend to find myself giving in and breaking apart. That one beaming flaw was that same personal favorite. The more I try to make sense of it, of any of it, and the more I try to win, the more I get sucked into these whirling messes. Even the residual taste of it all... sometimes I get wrapped up in that same fantasy. I don't know why. For things that no longer exist inside me or around me, I have quite the knack for transforming it back to its awful tangibility. 

 You are all ghosts to me. Haunting me. Finding me when I'm lost then taking me away into your darkness estranged from whatever I consider my reality. You don't have to be real, or present, or any longer existing. The fainter you are, the more I try to remember and place myself in the same shoes. The same worn out shoes that I should have thrown away, but instead hid under my bed. 

 You are all ghosts to me.

Ravenous

I had been working on this piece sporadically for quite some time now. Actually, ever since I started nursing. I wrote Gil's letter during my first week of pre-req in early October and I complimented it with Scarlet's after. It took me till tonight to finally finish it. I sacrificed my study time for this. But I really felt like finishing something. This is my first epistolary piece and I haven't decided if I'll keep continuing it. Anyway....

Dearest Dr. Gil,

     I painted my room the other day. If you were here, I’m certain it would have been finished. In fact, if you were here, I’m sure you would've actually painted while I boastfully and almost insolently splattered my walls to create my own personal Jackson Pollock. Instead my walls fashion patches of white. I bet you would hate the color. My room is a sunflower. Although right now, it looks like a dying, withering sunflower. Like it’s been left in the waste basket while the family is away on vacation. It really isn't so bad.

     Maybe I’ll visit you. But maybe not. I’m quite the busy person you know. Yesterday, I slept a full eighteen hours while Napoleon licked wet paint off my walls and the left-open lids. His fur was covered with patches of golden yellow and he licked my face awake. Probably hungry for real food. With all that going on, I simply have no time for anything. Therefore, how could I possibly see you? I argued with myself whether you even wanted to see me.

     When I can feel myself miss you, I like to imagine you with your white coat, without looking anyone in the eyes. Do you wear white coats? I would like to hope so. My dreams would otherwise be shattered. I also like to hope that you’ve given up haircuts and shaving. I’m sure you’re doing something to defy that place. I can only imagine the resentment you’re cooking up inside you while you stay awake way passed your bed time to receive your sufficient 2 hours of sleep for the day. You must adore your time of solitude. There’s no way you’d be blending in, cooperating, and making friends there. There’s no way. Am I wrong? I can only see you taking your afternoon walks, staring off into nothing, speaking and interacting with no one. Trapped in the confinement of your stubborn thoughts. I’ll be damned if you tell me you’ve made even one friend. Or found any sort of companion.

     If you were wondering, my room is no longer the wasteland that you hated it for. In fact, due to my impetuous decision to paint my walls, I had emptied my room entirely. No clothes. No pictures. No hoarded miscellaneous junk or furniture from flea markets, thrift stores, or neighbors’ garbage cans. The only thing that’s ever in here with me is my full-sized mattress on the floor and Napoleon. Occasionally I would have one of the books that you gave me or pens and papers here with me, but other than those, I am alone. I’m sure your room there is quite spacious and neat, just like your old room here. Your things meticulously arranged with you sitting on your desk, staring at your walls, probably contemplating your next attempt to get yourself to hate you even more.

     It took me months to finally write this. Suppose I’d been waiting to hear from you first. Hoping you’d beat me to it.

I saved the frame, in case you’d been wondering. I took out your drawings and stashed them away. Or threw them away. I can’t remember now. Either way, I didn’t want to see the last picture you’d drawn and left me with. So instead I hung the empty frame in front of my door.

Sincerely,

Scarlet

Dear Scarlet,

     I used to enjoy the defiance of my internal clock. Four in the morning was the hour that God granted me to possess. It was gracious of him, really. I figured it was probably why I’d turned out so goddamned queer. Why words come out of my mouth unlike the way they do of those around me. Apart from you of course. I believe you took a class on me. Which is strange because it never even seemed like you had the interest or patience to take a class on anything. Anyway, it’s four in the afternoon and I’m leisurely taking my two hour break before I must attend a night lecture.  It’s all so dull. Watching my professors push up their glasses and fold their hands together. Oftentimes I find myself making tight, straining fists until my palms turn blotchy white and I watch them return to their normal pink. I knew I’d been foolish doing something like this. Foolish for doing something for the sole purpose of having the satisfaction that I could. I loathe it all, Scarlet. My vocabulary has been translated to the medical Latin that every person in this university pretentiously speaks. Consequent to this, I have the tendency of declining group invitations and I relish in watching their faces semi-understandingly scrutinize me.

Not even a single hour belongs to me to write down something I’ve created or thought of myself. My days are clinical, anatomical, and severe. Every day I come to class, my craving for bone marrow flourishes. Not even the delicacy of animal bone marrow. I see pictures of these opened bone marrows printed on my textbooks; brighter than blood red. Thicker and frothy. And all my ponderings now belong to concocting my own personal recipes for cooking and preparing a dinner for one in my puny room. Drinking red wine. Taking bites of the marrow as if it’d been caviar in another life. Without chewing or swallowing. Merely tasting for a while till I’m ready to begin digesting and absorbing it as my own. This delicate craving serves another reason why I avoid fitting in with everyone here. I much rather imagine them cut up, and I, fishing for their bone marrow. Searching for the froth of red. I imagine each of them tasting different from the next and I wallow in the curious thoughts of knowing the differences in tastes.

In the afternoons, in between classes, while walking around the campus with my books tightly pressed in my hands beside me, I watch familiar and unfamiliar faces and I carefully create a recipe out of each of them. Those whom I could plausibly be fond of always turn out to be the successful recipes in my head. But without fail, even those whom I dislike from distant observations turn out to be an imaginarily decent meal. Sometimes I wish I knew where I’d gone. The hollowness I found when I’d first arrived here mutated into what I should considerably recognize as a disturbing anomaly. But unapologetically, as long as I’m here, I don’t give a damn.   

My God, Scarlet, I used to know the tiny particles that swam in my head. But now my appetite has changed and I miss walking into the bold color of your room while you’re tangled by washed and unwashed clothes. I can only imagine being with the paramount of your piles now. I still loved it anyway. Unlike my puny room which is tidy and white. Inside my closet you’ll find where I’ve stored my mountains of washed and unwashed garments, hats of every kind (no longer classified from order of my most favorite to least). I should have taken with me that picture frame you loved so much, even though I wouldn’t have had pictures to place and replace in it bi-weekly. I know you think I hated the messes you made and never cleaned, but the only picture I want to draw and frame are your piles and that  crimson color red. Maybe I’ll try to find another frame that you might like. And maybe I’ll draw your shoulder blade the next time I can breathe.

But for now I’m out of time.

With love,

Gil.

the color brown

My friend Andrey once told me to never stop writing. No matter how awful and how shitty and how terribly ridiculous or fucking stupid or poorly-written, Never stop writing. He told me it'll all make sense one day. He told me it all matters. Blindly and profoundly, he believed in my art the way I did with his. I think about it when I'm sitting staring at the wall. I tell myself, "I have to write. God it'll be shitty, but I have to write."

Bukowski once told me, "if you have to sit for hours staring at your computer screen or hunched over your typewriter searching for words, don't do it." That's when I'd sit staring at the wall. 

These are the two few that made any sense to me. These two vulgar and insane people. You can easily loathe the people they want you to see. But they know some hideous truth that lets me find exactly what I'm looking for. 

I am either to fear or not fear death. But I am to never fear anything I must write. Death will come for me, along with the words I've chosen. 

[scratches of paper from a cigar box]

demongirl and a strange arrangement

at the dinner table, 
i sat in front of the centerpiece
that faced me in size.
two candles 
and an unidentifiable plant,
i bared my teeth 
and inhaled the soup.
i fidgeted, 
waiting
for demongirl.

soon, i knew
my toes would curl 
while on my 
knees,
catching the drips from demongirl's 
mouth
into my own. 

but strangely,
demongirl 
was nowhere.

my teeth ground
and thought about 
the filthy things she'd
do without the only entrails
she trailed around.
consequently
i remembered the demands
of a demongirl
then collectedly,
temperately,
and solemnly
watched the cranberry sauce 
splash around the table
for the rest of the night.

Dro's Monologue (it's not though)

I didn't chase anything that summer. I ran. I couldn't sit but when I did it was the perfect time to. We lit. We passed. Like dragons. The friendly kind. The kind with color. Haircuts, uncut, I wore it long and I glistened. Like a fucking angel. We hadn't seen it all yet. We haven't tasted it all yet. The sounds were only getting better and we were only learning new dance moves. Squirming. Prancing. Like a dance to the gods of non-believers. We prayed to the day and to the drugs and I can say now, it made us laugh. Effortless and comfortable laughs. The sun would rise high but we rose higher. I told you, we glistened and the sun squinted at the sight of us. Golden brown, roasted. We were probably better than your wet dream's perfectly roasted marshmallow. Sandwiched queers, oozing white. It looked queer and we were queer alright. But at least the dickless devils didn't choke us...that bad. The chase only began at the end. The means to a meaningless end, when all the trains have whipped passed us, that's when the chase found us. I remember thinking how badly I would trip over my own feet and eat shit if we kept running backwards like hell. Like this is hell. 

Held A Cannibal

In the morning my head bobbed at the ceiling,
the screen dulled and colorless
like the film of gray playing
behind my lids.

Then I drank down something green.

Slimed.

In front of the same damn screen,
I saw her hanging
just the way I did in my sleep.

Head tilted to the left,
limp arms,
toes pointed
to hell.

She melted into my can,
green slime,
and I drank it down
till the bottom of the can tipped
to the ceiling I was bobbing at.

I knew her name once,
before I swallowed her.

What Day Is It?

I am officially one of life's bitches. Who the fuck did I think I was? I couldn't escape this shit even if I wanted to.

Nursing school has proven itself very difficult for me to keep up with. I don't know what I expected out of myself. I'd been a scum for two years and I go ahead and elope with a nursing program. I will never not be a fucking idiot. I don't like to think about the days of the week. I don't like to think about anything really. Occasionally I think about how regretful I will be for choosing this for myself. And by occasionally I mean, that's all that I ever really think about. How fucking regretful I am for never pursuing the things I've always wanted to do in life. What did I do during my youth? Sometimes I try to tell myself that I just think about all of this bullshit too much. Or maybe I'm just a bratty bitch who expects the unattainable out of life. I watched too many movies and goddamned TV shows and read too many books and listened to too many things that led me to believe life could more than the mediocre. But when I look around, it's all quite mediocre everywhere. IDIOT 2012

Also, I had been thinking of changing my name to Gin. My body is made up of 70% gin as of late. Gin is water. Gin is air. Gin is my friend and my liver will fail. Eventually. 

To lovers who blow

TO LOVERS WHO FUCKING BLOW

To friends who blow

TO FRIENDS WHO FUCKING BLOW

And then there's Vaggy

In the event that shit falls through, this dumbass little badger still exists. We've been neighbors for years and all of a sudden we're not. I now wake up in the morning to my brother's dumbass music and no longer to the alikeness of waking up with Vaggy's ipod because she's always awake before me. This brat is my limb and things are always going to be alright.

Gilly

I can actually fucking feel it. Even now. When it gets really late and I start to get sad about everyone. It's like an overcast day when I sort of feel like sobbing but I'm too happy to. It's like rereading things that should have lost its taste. It's like riding a bike and squinting your eyes through the wind but you're only really thinking about this one thing. It's like all the things I'm too embarrassed to say or admit but I wouldn't ever deny. It's like being naked at all times and I enjoy nudity which is probably why I am so in love with this. It's like it can never actually fail me or forget me. It even feels more than I could ever deserve. Everything and everyone is going to suck eventually but I could recognize pretty days this way. I could remember them. I could appreciate them and even when she's sometimes gone for a little while, I can feel alright again because I wear her everyday just to fucking smile about something. And when I'm too grumpy, something stupid will make me smile. Like "I'm the funniest person alive" and shit's true. Sometimes everyone and everything else is death but this fucking thing that I've known for so goddamn long that it feels like it's the only thing I will always know. This fucking thing. This inescapable and inexplicable thing is life.

A grumpy gilligan.

Screaming

I was sitting at a bar the other night, staring at the ceiling and screaming, "You're not better than me God!" I was with bruhs toasting to my life because I hydroplaned a full 180° facing oncoming traffic. I said, "I guess..." and forgot all the common topic starters. I reeked, that's all I knew.

So...Good...

Too old to scold.

Lost track of the years. Lost track of the fights. Lost track of the make-ups. The break-ups. Lost track of the gay. Lost track of the haircuts. Lost track of the movies. Lost track of the flattery. Lost track of every little detail about and between us. For the feeding and the force-feeding. For the pep talks and the shit talking. For the Sundays and the fun days. For the grumpy gills and the grumpier gills. For my foulmouth and your gasping. Soft spots and gay spots and favorite spots and sun spots and parking spots. Tickets on my windshield; the letter kind of tickets to tell me everything is going to be ok, and the parking kind of tickets from not moving my car from a No Parking zone because your comforter was mine in another lifetime. Ye, lifetime and shit. We feel like an entire lifetime and through all the now seemingly ridiculous moments when we were supposed to master the arts of letting go, we are here and we are queer and I love you, still. 

This is the longest I have ever felt so strongly for anyone. And I'm ok with being gay about that. 

Happy 7 or maybe 8 years to the first person to ever set me on fire.

FROGGY BLOW MY FACE

Stranger In My House

She turned to me to say something
I hadn't known,
I just assumed.

Politely, she asked if it was
alright
to shit in my bathroom.

I was displeased.

Why hasn't she shat in my bathroom before?

We've Both Got Better Things To Do

This won't last.

Being Gay

Someone tell me to shut the fuck up or something ya goddamn pussies.

I always refuse to wear my ID when I'm in school because no matter how much I like the crazy look on my face on the damn picture, it looks better hanging off of a rosary in my car. My picture ends up staring at me while I'm out driving around to get lunch. Or when I'm rushing to get to class. Or when I'm cruising home after an expected shitty day. I seriously considered bailing on this whole program the other day. It got me so down that I was about to throw in the goddamn towel (as my instructor had said). But I didn't because $30,000 keep ringing through my ears. Which causes me to cringe and shake. This whole goddamn shit really isn't that bad. It's just not for me. My class seems to like me. I figure it was only because I try my hardest to set myself apart. That this isn't what I want and that I hate goddamn near everyone and I make sarcastic remarks that pokes at their wits. I can see the way they look at me. Kind of like a foreign kid. Kind of like Fez. KIND OF. That doesn't even make sense... I don't even think that's actually true. I just know I feel different when I'm in there. The only thing I truly appreciate about the class is my lack of need to fit in with them (or even join them) but still get along rather well. I can manage to laugh with them and they can manage to tolerate (and be amused by) my cynicism. 

Fuck. I have more to study for. 

Social Networkings...

...bum me out. Bum me the fuck out. I hate caring about who knows me or who I know. I hate caring about the shit people say and do. I hate caring about the way I look. Or the way they look. I fucking hate it all and I am an idiot for getting a smart phone. I liked being under the rock. I liked focusing my attention on this one specific blog and not give a damn on who is viewing it or what any other idiot had to say about it. Now I constantly check stuff and I now like the sound or the blinking or the vibration of a motherfucking notification. I know I'm supposed to move forward with the world but it's really making me hate myself. It's really bumming me out and I just miss the way things used to be. Back when I would lug around my laptop struggling to find connection just to submit this one post. But nah. Now I am laying in bed with my phone on my face, typing this bullshit on this bullshit screen. Actually...I guess ultimately...and more honestly...I just miss my friends. And that's truly bumming me the fuck out. I didn't realize this would take a toll on me this much but it is now and there's nothing I can do about it. I'm just supposed to move fucking forward with the rest of the world and keep up with the people I used to be tight with through this bullshit screen.
Can I fucking sulk or what?

No Friend

This week has been a lose faith in shit week. I am getting too old already. I'll just accept the fact that things will be shitty from here. My friends are gone because we all outgrew eachother and there's nothing I can do about it. Even if it feels like I'll never find better company. Just clenching asscheeks, it's tough shit now. Who needs friends?

$30,000 worth of failure

Panic routine results in panic attacks. I need to pretend to be someone else for the next year if I want to accomplish this shit........................

Why couldn't I have existed as a squirrel?

Late Night Surprises w/ Dickheads

I mean... I honestly don't know Earl very well but it's still a coo picture of these foos. It's been a good birthday week. LKSAJDASLKDJASIWNDLKASNDKASDJSALKDJAPONWFLJN

xoxo bitches. 

October 25th

It's 5:47 am and I have yet to sleep. I have class in 2 hours and I wish I wish I didn't. My head throbs. I have a test. But today is Rae's birthday. All has been well in my life. If only I could sleep.

Stupid Girl

All you vaginas stew. You stew in your own filth of narcissism. You stew in your pretty pictures and false sense of confidence. You're insecure and you're terrible at hiding it. Your face sucks. All of your faces. Your kindness reeks. Like fucking vermin. Face it, rats aren't kind and I can smell you fussing over other people's shit as well as your own. Stupid Girl, show us your ugly and I'll show you mine. My hurtsquad wants to take a shit on your pretty face.

Tags: IDIOT. UGLY 2012.

Nepotism

Lately. When I hear shoegaze shit in this fun weather I can't help but miss two of my favorite people: Dro and Andro. Ya boy Jordan and Andrey. Back when being stoned to the bone and listening to music and watching movies and going to spots were the highlight of our lives. Gotdamn. I don't even know how to make friends anymore. I don't even want to make friends anymore. Everyone is dull and I am now dull. Dull life because I am arrogant.
Ah I miss them..
MakDrey: "I miss us."

Shit

It's three forty one now and I am still up. 2 hours of sleep is good too.
But also I wish I was dead so I can instead sleep forever.

Sem One

It's one forty one am and my head is throbbing. I curled in bed nearly 2 hours ago so I can sleep well before my first day of semester one. My head throbs every night. It also throbs every time my day reaches a lull or nothingness. It's raining outside and I am thinking about the passed three years I just had. Maybe this is why my head pounds. (Nah I'm still sick as fuck). But goddamn really. When am I going to let go of all this? Everyone grows up.

Pear Ace

I listened to Little Garcon today and wished we could still fuck shit up together. Growing up is a tertible thing. My bro is so far away.

Growing up is a terrible thing.
What is this?

Happy

I want to record this before it passes. Today, I am happy. I could list all the reasons but I don't need to. I just need the world to know that right now. Happiness found me somehow and I am squirming in my own bed, giggling and hugging pillows (RIGHT?! DA FUQ). But it's happening and I am not sorry that it sounds gay.

Liferuiner

On the finer things in life. On the simpler things in life. On the contentment. Fuck it, I don't know anything. I wonder how much I'll have to drink to not to want to break shit anymore. Or I wonder how much I'll have to drink before I start breaking shit. If it were up to me, you'd be dead by now. Or me. Doesn't matter. I wish one of us was dead. On the good days, I hope it'd be you. On the bad days, I hope it'd be me. DOESN'T MATTER. May we rot in hell. But even in hell, I hope you don't find me.

Pester

It hasn't stopped bothering me yet. I'm a nice girl and all, I just don't have what it takes...
I don't have it in me? Aw fuck sakes I am horrible at everything.
Now I get the masculinity thing. Weird feeling.

Vingt-Et-Un

God has had his eye on me all year. He's known of my alcoholic aspirations and there was no way the middle of October would belong to me. Maybe he thought I would die of alcohol poisoning on the first day. Even after making a deal with the devil to forever be a scumbag, God just wasn't having it. So I lay in bed and sneeze and cough and eat without tasting my food. The most wasted I could get is chugging my Nyquil to pass the fuck out for the rest of the night. I start semester 1 on Monday, surprisingly. Which leaves me a few days to get the devils going and out of my system so I can keep focusing for a solid 11 month haul. If I ever feel better that is. Party Hardy to my 21 year old self. May my adulthood refuse to be dull. 

Panic Routine

In the mornings I wake up an hour later than I plan for myself. Always late, always shaking, always pissed. I decline Ma's offer for breakfast. I rush to pull up my pants ten minutes before class starts, then I hurry out the door trying not to poke my eyes out with my sunglasses. If I'm lucky I'll have enough time to light a smoke while winding through the slow drivers. My legs will begin to shake on the gas pedal. I'll turn up my music to shout along and forget about the shakes. But it never works. By the time I find a parking spot, all my shit would be scattered all over my car floor. I gather them with the last drag of my smoke still between my lips, then stomp to class just before they do roll. I turn away from my instructors so I can unscrew the stud out of my lip because I forget to unscrew it at home. I put on my glasses. I cross my legs. I tap my extremities. Then my eight hours drag on.

Every day. This is me now. Every day.

After my eight hours in class fighting the sleepy bobhead and saying sarcastic shithead things to people, I come home to eat the nearest food item then open up my books to study hundreds of medical terms that I'll be tested on the next day. Dinner at 8. Lights out at 2. Try to find sleep for an hour. Then 3 hours later, my alarm goes off.

Snooze, repeat.

The Third

I. 

The man at the gate told me that I've come to the wrong place. I shook my head and said, "That's not possible. I took a very long drive here." He looked at me from under his hat, with his hands folded together in front of him. "I'm gonna have to ask you to leave," he said. "There isn't anything for you here."

Behind him, I looked passed to see the estate beyond the gates set ablaze. Flames towered over the roofs and a fat woman wearing a hat with a tropical bird made a run for the gate, screaming a horrible scream while the train of her floral dress was caught by a small fire, chasing her. 

"GILBERT!!!!" was the sound of her dreadful scream. She reached the gate and grabbed two bars, smiling at us calmly yet wild-eyed. As if the man was a fucking receptionist. "Has anyone seen Gilbert?" she asked steadying her voice. But she was failing. The shakes had her now and I knew she'll never sound pleasant again, if she ever had before. Her eyes were on us then up at the sky. "Oh Gilbert..." she wept quietly, her shoulders nodding. By now, you should know that I took a moment to contemplate shuffling back to my car and leaving behind this disorienting ordeal. But the man in the hat suddenly steps closer to the woman with his back facing me.

"Get back to the party," he said to her. "You're going to miss the party." Now his hands were folded together behind him. "Gilbert is inside with the rest. He's waiting for you."

She then suddenly stopped crying. Instantaneously, her eyes glazed with the reflection of the man's face and expression. The ugly man. Lines creased on top of another. White stubbles of hair covered most of his face and his white brows pointed in all directions. Strands pointed toward the estate, the woman, the gate, and me. This very ugly man. I felt my own teeth fall out of my mouth when I saw the yellow and purple rotted things in his mouth. Dots of saliva formed at the corners and decorated his face sodden and perverse. I couldn't leave. 

The flames on the woman's train had the skirt of her dress now. She didn't make a sound apart from the grinding of her teeth, still fixed on the ugly man. "Run on back in," he said. "And your dress," he paused and stroked her index finger that still clutched on the metal bar. "...looks tasteful on you now."

Almost immediately, she turned around and ran screaming Gilbert.

... 

deadpan class

Maybe being a nurse won't be so bad. I really enjoy the irony. I really enjoy how puzzled it makes people. I really enjoy being eternally a hedonistic shithead.

Orange

Hi.

Today was my first day of class and I didn't thnk I would hate it as much as I did. The dress code pissed me off, but I can live with that. No metal on my face? FINE. No shorts? FINE. No smelling like motherfucking cigarettes or my favorite perfume? FINE. JUST FINE ALRIGHT. The medical field is a competitive little fucker. I don't know what I'm getting myself into but I'm going to do it anyway. My instructor asked us what OUR motivations are. I said I LIKE TO PROVE WRONG YA'LL BITCHES WHO DOUBT ME. She furrowed her eyebrows, and I laughed in my seat. I didn't feel like making friends so I didn't. I just talked like a shithead to people. These fucks can't eat me alive though. They're not allowed. Because I'm better than God. That's right, I said it. I'm better than God. 

Time to make friends with a thousand flashcards. 

Goodbye. 

Starving

My appetite has grown...exponentially. I don't know if it's because Ace is away, starving in Paris, but all I wanna do is feed on ANYTHING. Like right now for example. I am currently wolfing down dinner leftovers. Dim sum galore with a side of gin and juice while watching the GGayest show in the world. On my damn couch because my room threw up on itself with all the clothes I have not yet packed. I just want to eat. It is making my stomach significantly rounder and larger but I don't even care. There's no way for me to fill whatever void this is........so I will feast. And feast. I told myself I have till October to be this gluttonous ogre, but who knows. I might just stay this way until the mirror gets me to do a doubletake of myself and see that I have swollen into something unpleasant.

Shit.

Big Thing

Ever since this damn phone, I never want to be on a laptop. I use my laptop as a television for when I am at home at night, struggling to sleep. And I can never fucking sleep. So goddamn all this. 

In other matters, tonight is my last night in my old house and I am not even there to spend it. It doesn't really matter. My bed is naked and I have been sleeping on the couch. 

I don't really have anything to say. 

I just feel like keeping everything a secret. 

Oh well, right?

On To The Next

I am magnificent.
I am my own empty vessel.
But I am magnificent
and the dust will never settle on me.

on the porch

During my freshman year in high school, I spent the afternoons with roughly 20 of my friends polishing the wooden floors of my living room and callousing our feet with the stone cement of my porch. We were children and we were alive. On Sundays, we'd gather at a usual time and put on some movie while we talked over every scene from intro to credits. We'd bake cakes, and cookies, and brownies using leftover McDonald's butter. They'd wear my pajamas, run around my front yard, and scream through their teeth. I watched them all and we reveled. Life as we knew it was easy and life as we knew it was my house with the dozens of us. My parents would spend my nonexistent college fund feeding all these mouths, as if they'd adopted an army of harmless free-spirits. At night we'd huddle together on my massive couches, sharing blankets and fighting over the golden-tasseled throw pillows that always found their way on the floor anyway, watching some scary movie that our bear of a friend would insist we see for the sole purpose of  "SHITTING YOUR PANTS." Everyone was invited and you probably were too. We were young and drunk off ourselves. Nearly 6 years later, Life, without a fail, has found me. Some of us are off in the military, a four-year college, on that steady grind for minimum wage, at our nearest and most beloved community college, and even in cobble-stoned, starving Paris. This house will no longer be ours and the porch goes too. I am spending the last few days and nights on my porch, MY porch, remembering the life we once had here. Life has found them and now it's found me. In less than 30 days, I'll be off on my goddamned journey to being Nurse, Yours Truly and in less than 20 days, I will be on another porch, in another living room, paving a new life of adulthood, forever remembering the younger me. The younger us. I miss my friends. But like I said, Life has found us. I'm not sad, I'm just kind of sad. We couldn't stay here forever because if we did, we'd fill my house with bodies of heat which it always did back then, growing bodies of heat and we wouldn't have what we have now. I'm feeling reminiscent tonight and I'm feeling alright. I was ready for Life to find me, even if I was always such a late bloomer. 

Never forgetting the most uncomfortable porch 

What the hell is wrong with me

Maybe I should start acting more like a human and less like an animal.

I'm a sinner and the sky is red.

Are you alone at 4 in the morning?

This is filthy.

Infantile

I had on two layers of pants because I thought I deserved one more while I sit on my stone-cemented porch, hungry for smokes.

I had cleaned my room all day and rested my spine. My clothes are neatly stacked, hung on the bar of my closet, or waiting in the dryer for me. My floors are spotless. My desk unchanged and undisturbed. I feasted a few times in few hour intervals and even drank water. I also watered the lawn during my hourly smoke breaks after I noticed that it began to sprinkle. With loaves of bread on my feet, I stood in front of my house with my face to the sky and my chin apart from the ground. It was rain when under me was the steam of a warm day. I was jubilant and careless so I stood there and let the drops crash on my face. When the drops stopped, I took my hose and pointed it toward the sky and waited for my own drops to land on me, hoping my face would look like a Pollock despite the fact that it was just my hose. It was just my faucet.

This is easy, I said.

I shuffled back in my house and found my bed, overcast for me while the fan broke my silence. I read aloud for a few hours because of the respect I wanted to pay the words then listened to music because it feels like I listen to nothing anymore. I tried to write a letter when a good song played on but I never got passed the third line. I couldn't continue such a letter because today I had airdried the rain drops on my face. So I ripped off the page, crumpled it into my hands, then tossed it in the waste basket. I continued to think it easy.

But then the wall that I pathetically stare at stared back at me.

And so I was sitting on a slipper wearing my two layers of pants, feeding myself with smoke, and thinking of the unexpected ways I could be killed right on my porch. I wondered if I could survive a bullet to my chest or being mauled by someone's dog while they took a night walk together. Maybe an insane person have been keeping tabs of my smoke breaks and will slice open my jugular when the hour comes. I was even inspired by a plane overhead and hoped it would crash on my lawn, smashing my bones but leaving my car in the driveway unscratched. There was no way I was dying tonight.

I thought it was easy. But the wall will stare back at me and I'll be on my porch, dazed with the thoughts of how I could get away with it. How I could find a shortcut to this thing I'm starting to think of so easy.

Long Hairs, Short Hairs, and Cannibalism

I watch them drive away in their cars. All of them. Scents stay and I sit alone for a while wondering how I could keep them. All of them. I drink and I think of them and their hair and how slow I move beside them. In a restaurant. In their cars. On my bed. Sometimes I forget that they're all different. That some eat me up faster than others. I am an animal but I'm the warmest of them all. I weaken and thrive on the moments time falters. My hand on their backs and shoulders and the space on their necks that fits me in no matter the woman.

I fell in love with this girl once and my bones hurt lying beside her. I'd drink some more and smile her way to pretend I wasn't deteriorating and shriveling and shrinking into the size she intended me to be. It was a war. It was vicious and quiet and she prowled for me without me even knowing. I can show you her teeth marks and I can show you the way she'd smile after every bite. But she'd drive away in her car. As they all did. She's only a girl but I never doubted to play the prey anyway.

Sometimes I'd oogle these damn girls and pretend I was packing something large in my pants. When my pants would come off I'd fixate on their faces and their mouths and my hands would fall off then roll under the bed where they're out of my reach till I find these girls on top of me, with their weight on me, dominating me, and all I can do is press my mouth against theirs and wait for the moment when time falters again.

I'm drying my sweat right now after watching a car drive away. They're not all predators, I just think they are. It fucking turns me on and I realize that eventually they'll eat me up so badly that shreds of my flesh will be left on my bed while my pants are on the floor next to my hands. I'd be in shreds but at least my pieces were fucking turned on.

I'd wait for the next one while drinking some more.

Belligerently screaming fuck you i love you

Morning Surprises

"You think it's so easy being friends with you"

This isn't gonna last.
I can feel the wine
from the night before
in the back of my eyes
They're red and yellow
tapping at the back of my head
and the same ass behind me
I snorted, sighed, and slurred
like a mule eating its own foot
Its own head and its own ass
This isn't gonna last
But I'll keep
a glass in my hand
Both of my hands
so to never try and chase
or grab
the same ass that
had me
eating my own foot.

Twice

I spilled my wine twice tonight. After just writing about always spilling, I spilled AGAIN. Right after my talk with my father.

I AM AN IDIOT PLEASE TAKE MY LIFE.

Hey Rico

My father and I crossed paths in the hallway outside of my room earlier. He was drunk and so was I. He held his cup taking sips in between our conversation about my future. I hung on to the pull up bar hanging at the treshold of our laundry room as he drank and talked, acting like I wasn't as drunk as he was. We played our parts well. He was serious and lend me what should be his sober advice and I nodded and agreed the way I would if the wine hadn't found me. I am just like my father. All I hope for is to never earn a beer belly the way he has. Otherwise, I'd gladly and honorably be just like him

Red

I spill every wine night. I'd place my wine on my record player then be drunk and tip my glass over. I have to wipe red shit off...every single time. I haven't learned my lesson because I don't like lessons and I like my wine better. I lit two candles to rid of the wine smell because the shit makes my room smell like sweet bread in the morning. I have an exam in the morning and I don't know how I'll manage to wake up in the morning but I'll manage. It's quiet again and I'm turning my blues into red because today was the end of an era and tomorrow I have to take an exam. I wish I can be a prick for the rest of my life but what's a prick if it's sentimental? I'm a sappy shit and that's ok. I'm magnificent and the world will know it.

I'll take a swig and a stoge, then fall asleep to awake to another era.

Cheers.

Creature in my gut

I awoke this morning
as the room spun and my head ached
My mouth was dry
but her ass was against my back
and everything was out of reach.
Through the blinds of the window
peeked the sun
and I saw gin in the sky
contained inside black hats
filled to the brim
She was in a ball
snoring a 5am snore
at nine thirty in the morning
with her ass against my back
and my life seemed out of reach
I awoke feeling nothing
then rolled over
to say goodbye to this thing
that gnaws at me.

FREE MY BRUH JSMKE

Talking to my blog

My granma's flight got cancelled today so she's pretty bummed not being on a plane right now to come home. We ended up driving to the airport just to have dinner. I guess I always like airports, even if I hate the stupid feeling it gives me when I'm there, or leaving there. I wasn't so sulky today because I had something to look forward to. I laid on a luggage cart while at the airport and pretended it was my bed. I nearly trippes this plump Indian lady because of my danger legs but I proceeded to lay on the cart anyway. Also, I think I finally thought of my fictional alter ego character name. Maybe. Not quite. Alright maybe I didn't but I was close. Ace visited me today and that was the highlight of my day. She went on destroying my kitchen one food item at a time. There are now Coco Puffs in the Froot Loops because she found out there wasn't any milk. We watched a movie with a sleazy Kat Dennings and I didn't even pay attention. Now I am sitting outside my house chainsmoking, as per usual. My body aches from laying on my floor because scumbags like me don't deserve to be sleeping on such a royal bed. It's cold and it's quiet and I want another cigarette.

So I think I'll have another now.

Here's to my mundane days!

Be still my love

Alright alright

I spilled wine all over my record player and now my room reeks of something funny even if I know it's wine. I've been a hermit lately because I'm bummed about living and I realized how little connections I have with people anymore. I cut off so many ties to the people I once called my friends and I now stare at my phone thinking of just how fucking bummed I am. I live in my hole and no one really bothers me because everyone is afraid of me. I try to write a lot. I try to read some. I chainsmoke like it's my last day to live and I borrow my father's alcohol to help me sleep at night. It never really helps though. I end up staying awake passed 7am every morning anyway. Life as I know it is a black hole of the sad blues. I've got the blues and it's all mine. All to myself. Alone in my hole of a room. I began talking to myself earlier after I had scarfed down two..TWO burgers from In N Out. I don't particularly like In N Out and I almost can never finish even one cheeseburger. But this sulker is an eater and I have a duty to eat. Anyway, I began talking to myself as I stared blankly at my TV when I realized that I haven't even heard my own voice in days. I havent had a conversation with anyone and my voice is a fucking alien. Right after I heard myself and startled myself with my foreign idea of a voice, I stopped and zipped my mouth shut. Because of...I don't know... Embarrassment. Shame? And the sad sad idea of how pitiful I am to myself? Fucking ridiculous. And so now I am laying awake in bed even less compelled to ever speak...maybe ever again. I don't even care how much of a fucking pooper I'm being. FUCKING POOPER. Life bums me out and I want no part of it.
Fuck me I hope no one will bother to read this.

What have I done

AH SHIT

Nights drunk and pissed off

Shit I'm Into

Sulking.
Self-pity.
Aggression.
Bitter shit.
Filthy mouth.
My bed.
Your bed.
Legs around me.

Post-Party Sunday Evening Feeling Kinda Shit

A is for

Angry.
Anxious.
And.
I don't know.

Dreams

In every single one? Please kill me.

Obsessions

I can't find anything. At first everything was a droning blur. Then a moment of clarity. But now it's just black. And I can't see shit.

Fo Ma Buddy Mikal

Hella happy birthday

Here's ma face, the best present I could give anyone.

Hey

I've been in my head these days.

Letters

I have this stupid stack of stupid unsent fucking letters that I either want to set on fucking fire or turn into soggy shit with my fucking tears. 

Disneyland Diaries 2012

I found this the other night on my computer. I had completely forgotten that I kept a recollection of my thoughts while I was vacationing with Mikal and my family. I took anger to Disneyland with me. To fucking Disneyland. 

Disneyland at 20.

It poured all day. I spent about an hour straightening my insufferably long hair only to be undone by the rain. My clothes were drenched and every next step I took felt heavier than the last. I couldn’t grasp the level of my happiness at first. But once my head went up in the sky, I knew I didn’t want to come down unless I was happy. So I decided to let contentment find me then decided to be partial to the pouring.

There was a moment when paranoia struck me like the back of some bitch’s hand. I couldn’t look into anyone’s eyes and I felt they were all onto me. I fought with myself, forgot to eat my corndog, and stared pensively at nothing and no one in particular. When I won my own fight, I returned to the contentment that found me.

Disneyland at 5 in the morning.

I’m a shitty writer because I have nothing to write about. I’m a shitty writer because I never write. I’m a shitty writer.

Disneyland at 5 in the morning is the convulsing of my angry body. It’s my fist wrapped in white. It’s your fucking back turned to me.

I’m a fucking shitty writer.

“Shut your fucking mouth, I don’t want to hear your voice anymore.” At a different time, I wouldn’t have regrettably shuffled to the exit. I wouldn’t have tried to sit on the curb of the busiest place in Anaheim, being nudged by strollers and whining children and their goddamn shrill families. I wouldn’t have tried to sit on some fake fucking porch thinking of all the ways I could get sad.

“Shut your fucking mouth, I don’t want to hear your voice anymore.” I might’ve said it to the wrong person. But it doesn’t really matter. I want everyone to hear this from me. Without the part where I regret the existence of its fucking beauty.

Disneyland at 6:47am.

Mikal is asleep beside me on this shit of a bed. My fingers are directing me to write about how much I hate her. How much I actually fucking hate her and the way she makes me feel. That’s probably the price you pay for adoring someone who can’t reciprocate. I fucking hate this person but I don’t think I can live without her.

I fucking hate this.

But wait. Give me an hour and I’ll be high enough to forget how much I hate her. 

Old Stories: Fingers

Another short that I wrote in the summer of 2009, back when Edgar Allan Poe was my only friend at the dead of the hot nights. I was inspired and aspiring. I didn't realize that I could even tell fake stories. Then I found out I'm a great liar. And now I want to lie for the rest of my life. Lie greatly, that is. 

In bold letters, the note read, “Missing.” Immediately, he felt a surge of worry, a surge of panic. And he bit his nail. He bit down hard.

He sat hunched at the foot of his bed, his right foot shaking steadily on top of his left knee. He took a deep breath, placed the note lightly on the floor, and laid his back flat on top of the mattress.

A smile smeared across his face now. He chuckled just slightly, and then closed his eyes for the longest nap he’ll ever take.

When he woke up, the clock blinked 3:35 and it bled dark outside of his window. His phone rang just then as he rubbed the sleep off of his eyes. He rose slowly and dragged his feet to the phone to meet with its annoying ringing. When he picked it up, he flung it across the room with enough force that shattered the phone in half making one final crashing sound. Then it was quiet again.

He headed to the bathroom where the mess still stationed. It was as if nothing but the smell of bleach was there. He washed his face and shook his head. As he brought his face up, he grew more intently on the reflection on the mirror. Dark circles devoured the color of his eyes. He was pale blue and creases were stamped endlessly across his face.

There were two knocks on his front door, just two and nothing more. He stuck his head out of the bathroom, glared at the front door, and steadied himself decent.

Walking casually towards it, he whistled cheerily through the silence. He put on a swagger and face too light for the time at present.

He swung the door open. It’s her, he thought. He smiled anyway. “What can I do for you?”

She smiled wryly and pushed him aside. She entered his home with confidence, but slowed at the creep of his living room. All the lights were off except for the bathroom.

“Where is she?” She demanded emotionlessly. “I know she’s been here.”

He chuckled to himself, shut the door behind him, and slowed toward her.

“There is no one else here but you and me. Now who is this ‘she’ that you’re looking for?”

She blinked several times, took the deepest of breaths. She emoted very little in reaction to him.

“I don’t have very much time. We’re leaving tomorrow,” she mentioned.

He walked to the couch, sat himself down, and motioned for her to sit too. She shook her head, of course, and stood stiffly in the dark.

She couldn’t see him now, the dark had taken him. But she knew that he was staring at her, waiting to speak further.

“I really need you to tell me where she is,” she continued. “We don’t want to leave with out her. She hates it when we do.”

“I’m sure things have changed. Feel free to leave when you please. If I see her and she is unhappy, I’ll be sure to tell her that you’d completely considered her before leaving.”

She pursed her lips. There’s really no need in further searching for her, she thought. And he’d felt her convinced.

“I suppose I’ll be leaving now. I’m sorry to have disturbed you at this hour. This all was just so sudden and so urgent. I took all actions I had to take,” she explained. “If you see her, please let her know that she knows exactly where we will be and that we apologize for the abandonment.”

He smiled wide enough to see the pearliness of his teeth even in the dark. She gasped for some air at the sight of this, and her reaction further pleased him.

“It is not a problem at all. Please have a safe trip,” he stood up, and pushed her gently to the door.

She stood for a second facing him just outside of his door, and he knew that she knew. But he also knew that there was nothing she was going to do about it.

“Goodbye now,” she said, and faced him away, walking as steadily as she could.

“Goodbye,” he whispered through his teeth and firmly closed the door behind him.

He walked swiftly back to his bedroom, switched on the light, and tilted his head at the sight of what the foot of his bed had exposed.