Friday, October 8, 2004

Magical Cord

I went to Austin Fay's today.

Austin Fay's a rather cool guy I met from being in Newspaper. This year, he'll be running Lit Mag, which I'm anticipating joining.


At his house, I watched him play Silent Hill 4: The Room for a while, then his brother Marcus came down, and Danae and Bender Hoag came over, and they played poker.

I put 25 cents in, and I only played a few games. I'm not into poker and never will be.

So I sat there and watched them, all the while saying random things. I got all of them bursting out laughing many times. It was pretty good times.

I can't recall many specific things.

At times, I'd make sudden, random movements, and surprise everyone. At times, I'd say random things, and Marcus Fay and Austin would say, "Inappropriate" and then Austin would grab my nipples. It was rather funny.

One time I quickly slammed down some poker chips. One time I went, "Ka meha meha meha. . ." like Goku does in DBZ, and then I knocked a whole bunch of poker chips off the table, really suddenly. One time I started this real crazy laugh, and Austin grabbed at me, and I kept laughing and making myself laugh harder, and then Austin slapped my knee. So then I started slapping my knee, repeatedly, hard. Then I banged my head on the table. Then I said, "I'm going to kill myself, and I mean it this time." Then I said, "Flopping donger is the most beautiful phrase in the English language, not 'Cellar door.'" I hit on Denae a bit. I put on this little cowboy hat, wore it on my head for a while. I balanced a bottle on my head. I put on Bender's sunglasses, asked if I was a movie star, Austin said yes. Everyone kept forgetting where I worked, and then I'd tell them the Steak Buffet, and I'd say no one remembers anything I say.

By far the funniest thing I said, though, was when we were listening to the Fight Club soundtrack. I said, "Imagine Brad Pitt gyrating in front of you, endlessly, to this music. . .imagine him going on forever and ever, sweat dripping from his body. . ." Everyone just cracked up. It was great.

Denae said she hated me. I said I still loved her. She said she still hated me so I said I hated her back.

It was a lot of things, so many things I can't remember it all.

When everyone left, Austin and I sat down and I watched him play more Silent Hill 4.

His mom came down, gave each of them - Marcus, Austin - a hug, went to bed. Before that happened, Austin and I went up, got something to drink and eat. His dad was there watching TV, reading the paper. Reminded me of my dad. It's a wonder how many Americans are like that - work, come home, watch TV, do basically nothing.

When we were back down there, I told Austin that'll be us someday. He said I was right. He asked me if I ever just snuck outside at night. I asked him if it was scary. He said no it wasn't, it was becoming the thing you're scared of.

I imagined walking outside, in the dark, the streetlights. It would be serene.

I told him his mom made me depressed, and he said he agreed.

I kept thinking how I'll treasure what is my life at this point, how when I'm older I'll look back and I won't believe how I came to be as fucked up as I am now, from what I was then. I'll wonder what happened to everything I was.

Silent Hill 4 is a crazy game. He kept playing, got frustrated a bit. I told him I'd never kissed a girl while we played, done nothing to them. He asked me why that was, and I couldn't give a real answer.

On the game, there was something about the "magical cord," which would be the umbilical cord, and how some kid cut it off, or something, and he was the devil. Confusing stuff. Which is what the SH series is anyway.

I left around 12, telling Austin he was awesome, and he thanked me for coming up. I walked out and there was his dog, sitting there, in the night. I came up and kissed him and told him he was a good dog, and drove home, feeling like I was so distant. Like my own car wasn't my own car, and where I was going was foreign.

I would like to hold someone in my arms right now, just escape, just sleep forever, just not have to worry. I'd like to coalesce, just become one entity that doesn't exist. Has no reason.

I work tomorrow, 5-CL. I've got some homework to do. . .an essay on Macbeth. My birthday's next Tuesday, and I don't know what I'll do then. I'm going to get an ipod if I can, and I'd like to have some party of some sort.

The last time I worked, I was sick as hell of it. That's how I've felt from the beginning. I just haven't cared, but I make myself care, because I know this is the real deal. . .I have to take a job and keep it, I have to get used to working and whatnot else this world forces on you.

Andrew Jinx was washing. I kept coming in there with these creamer packets and pushing on the ends of them, making them pop open and splash what's inside. I'd make orgasm noises as I did it, and try to hit Jinx with it, or hit the ground, or whatever else. It was entertaining. I was just messing around because I was so sick of my job, and I was busing and I didn't feel like it.

After coming in there and doing this about three times, the manager Travis came up to me, told me that the creamers cost money, and so I decided I'd better quit fucking around.

After that I just felt pissed, and I started busing really, really fast. I wanted to fight something. . .but there was nothing to fight. So I turned my want to fight into efficiency, and bused hard as hell.

I got all caught up, went in and helped Jinx wash and unrack, and I told Jinx that I was pissed. I was sick of working here. It was bullshit. I wanted to get fired. I figured being fired would be good.

He said he was feeling the same thing, and that it was bullshit we got paid so little, since the Steak Buffet does gross a lot of money. I said I agreed.

I remember feeling a bit better once I left, since I'd kicked so much ass.

On another note, Lacey from school's called me two days in a row now. She's this seemingly nice girl that was in my latin class last year. I'm thinking she might've saw me jogging when I did two days ago, in my tight tanktop, or something. Someone had honked at me. Might've been her.

I've not been around when she's called, though.
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Wednesday, October 6, 2004

Do

Mitch is back to himself.
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Tuesday, October 5, 2004

fhkldlksag

During the past few days, I've listened to Nine Inch Nails' "Hurt" at least 5 times a day. I feel I know the every nook and cranny of the song. I feel it is a powerful song, an interesting song.

---

On Sunday, they asked me to close on Monday, 5 to close. I told them fine.

I thought I would get out of there about 9:30-10 o'clock, since that's when you often get out of there on a weekday.

I got out at 11. I wanted to die when I finally got out of there. I wanted to die when I was in there, too.

I went home and listened to some music, did my homework. The music helped me feel at least better.

Yesterday still was one of the worst days in a while. The entire day consisted of me waking up, going to school, getting off of school, going to work at 4, getting off at 11, doing my homework until 12, and finally getting to sleep around 1 AM.

Today I went in and got my paycheck. 40 hours, $190. She asked me to work tomorrow, as well, and I told her no. I've worked 5 days in a row after today, and I want my two days off, at least. I'm supposed to have three days off a week, but I worked yesterday.

School ends tomorrow, because it's a short week. Friday and Thursday off. I have Wednesday and Thursday off, and then work the entire rest of the weekend.

I don't like working the weekends. The weekends there are always busy, you always have to work hard as hell.

I feel really drained right now. I could go to sleep, but I can't. I need to eat something then it's off to work for my five hours. Hopefully I'll get off early. I can't stand working and going to school so much anymore, I need some time to relax, and I'll be getting it after today.

I'm off to eat something, relax. I'll be leaving for work at 4:45. . .

I hate it up here in this computer room. It smells like smoke since my mom smokes up here. It's nasty. . .
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Monday, October 4, 2004

The blur of serentiy caught in the bones of my teeth.

On Saturday when I went to work, my eyes came upon someone I'd never seen as manager there before. And she was beautiful and her name was Kellan. Kelly for short.

And I wanted to fuck her where she was standing the moment I saw her, just like every other male worker at the Steak Buffet.

I would describe this beautiful woman to you, but what I want you to do is, let her form take the shape you think is beauty. Because as they say, beauty is in the eye of the beholder. So if what you think's beautiful is a blonde, make her blonde. Brunette, make her brunette. Skinny, make her skinny. Fat, make her fat.

I wanted to go up to her and tell her, "You're so beautiful it's intimidating." I wanted to take her into the bathroom and rape her, but I wouldn't do that because that would be bad. I'm pretty sure it wouldn't've been rape, since she'd probably be attracted to me, and would at least subconciously consent to it.

Looking at her, watching her walk around, those 5 or so hours I worked, it was misery. I was in misery because she was so beautiful, and I wished I could have something that beautiful.

Chris Olson and Mike Scorick and I, all we did was talk and think about her that day we worked. Stare at her as she walked by.

Olson told me he'd dropped a fork and she'd bent over right in his face. This led me to the idea of purposely dropping a fork each time she passed by us.

The image in my head, and the entire circumstance caused me to laugh and laugh and laugh on and off, as it did Olson and Mike.

Maybe the first time, she wouldn't catch on. You'd just see her coming, you'd drop an eating utensil. You'd say, "Damn, I'm such a fucking klutz." Then you'd say, "Could you get that for me, Kelly?" And maybe she'd get it, and maybe not.

Repeat. Watch her ass as she bends over Grab more silverware and repeat again. Maybe the second time, drop a whole entire collection for her to pick up, so you can stare as long as you want, cement the image in your head.

She's twenty-five, I don't know if she's going to college, and she's worked at the Steak Buffet for five years. She also doesn't have a boyfriend, which is amazing seeing as she's so beautiful. It's impossible, that she doesn't have a boyfriend. It's impossible she's even a virgin. The men are probably all over her. Just impossible.

Olson walked by me once, said, "She's so hot."

That was agreed, but I said, "Her and a million other women."

You millions of women, you know who you are.

On another note, Chris Olson is apparently having a party at his house on Thursday, since there's no school then. I have no clue if alcohol is involved, but I have a deep moral sense about drinking. Despite the fact that I'm pretty amoral, this is one of those things I won't ever do, it is likely. But who knows.

It stems from the fact that my dad drinks some of the time, and also that my mom drinks pretty often too, and I cannot stand seeing them so drunk and so stupid.

I mean, instead of drinking, I'll go write a poem. I'll go for a jog.

It gives you the same thing that you want. It allows you to escape reality. It allows you to disappear. It allows you to feel amazing. And without all the goddamned side effects.

I'm off to bed. . .

I'd like to mention that I got Interpol's new album today. I still like their first album, Turn on the Bright Lights better, but Antics is pretty good. . .especially the songs towards the end.

It's worth a listen to. I could send some if you catch me on AIM sometime, but first I'd have to burn a CD with their albums on it, which I'll do.

The sound of them is sort of instrumental rock. Most of the songs are love songs. The singer of the band has a dull voice, and it works. It's kind of an interesting combination. They've been compared to Joy Divison. I haven't listened to Joy Division but from what I understand, the singer's voice is what sounds like Joy Division, not the band as a whole.
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Sunday, October 3, 2004

Fight (a story from a long time ago), cont.

two2two
When I had gotten my car parked, I quickly grabbed my red cap, since I was supposed to wear it, and put it on my head; I walked out in the sunny, cloudless, day. I was greeted by the man who had hired me.
“Hey there,” he said to me, that beard of his wagging; and again I felt some kind of feeling of pity. It was in his eyes.
“Hi.”
He then told me his name was Marcus—“just call me Marc, as they all call me,” and told me I would be trained by Nick. I was then greeted with Nick; he was a tall, lanky fellow, about in his 20s. I took an immediate liking to him, and despite my apprehension; despite how I felt, he warmed me to get going on the work I was to learn. Around him I felt all right.

I was in the back, over by the grill, with Nick; Marcus was up at front, taking peoples’ orders, giving them to us. Nick went over with me how to grill meat correctly—how to make brats, hamburgers, hot dogs. It wasn’t anything hard; it wasn’t hard at all, really, and with Nick taking me easy along with it, I learned well. But I still kept a timid way about it, since I had just gotten in; it’s just the way I am. I can’t do anything with full confidence unless I’ve been doing it a while; but still, I had Nick, asking me if I had any questions along the way, showing my shortcuts—it was good. But I was timid about it, and I couldn’t help it, was all.
“Thing is,” Nick said to me, as I stood over his shoulder, watching him cook a few stray brats; a few stray hamburgers, and the like. “The thing is, when it gets busy, then it gets hard, y’know”; “that’s when you really have to know the shortcuts. That’s when it gets tough.” The things smoked on the grill, the grill’s flames licking on up—touching the bare meat, cooking it. Probably killing a lot of bacteria, like some goddamned genocide.
I gave what he’d said a though over; gave it a good thought over.
All I did was, I looked him in the eye, and said, “There’s always a catch”; “there’s always a goddamned catch.”
“Yeah,” Nick said back; he flipped a burger over, as I was over his shoulder watching. “When it gets like that, this job sucks.” Then Nick grabbed a paper plate—it was one of the cheap ones, with the fringe all around the outside corners--“These’re done—take ‘em up there for the order,” is what he said; and so I did.
Old Marc was up in front, of course; he was sweating like a pig in his shirt he was wearing, showcasing his bulging stomach. Right then I realized I was sweating; it’s just what happens when you see someone else sweating—you immediately wonder if you’re sweating. So I rubbed my forehead, feeling the perspiration come off on my fingers.
The plate had hamburgers and brats on it; it was still steaming a bit as I handed it over. He took it happily, grabbing it, giving me this stern look. “Lookie here, boy”; he pointed at the plate, with its contents. “See these? Well, these customers up here have been waiting longer than’s needed, boy”; and then he pointed to the customers; and he kept going on, in this big tirade. I didn’t even hear most of it; I just saw his big fat quadruple chin moving, his mouth going on and on. He ended with, “I know you’re new, but it’s time to wake up, boy”; and then that pity returned to his eye. “Just catch on faster, is all, because I’d like to keep my customers,” and then it was over; and thank god it was, because I hated it when people went off on a big tangent. Especially when they call you boy all the time. Boy, do I hate that. Boy, do I ever.

I don’t care what anyone says, the guy was expecting too damn much from me; I was just like them all, what less did he expect? Was I actually supposed to care about some menial job I had (my first one, too, no less)? Didn’t he even consider that this was my first job? But, it seemed he did, because at that moment, I saw the pity in his eye; and those last words he had said to me had seemed kinder than all the rest.

All I did was put my hands in my pockets, and like a trained dog will do a trick for a treat, I said, “Yessir”; and when I said it, I forced myself to look him in the eye, even if I hated it. I have this bad habit of putting my hands in my pockets when I’m nervous; I just can’t help it, it’s just what I do. It helped me look in his eyes, is what it did.
Up to that point, it was all fine; I could damn well handle it. But then again, when you’re hanging over the edge, and keeping up fine, that’s when something will push you right on down; push you down, make you get all scratched up. That’s what happened next.
The customers who were pissed were a young couple. The woman, a brunette, looked about seventeen, maybe eighteen; the man was this short burly man with a terribly tacky goatee, who looked to be about twenty. The woman had big cans, so it was easy to see why Mr. Burly had taken her up; and Ms. Brunette’s Mr. Burly was buff as hell, so it’s easy to see why she chose him. It was a simple game of attraction. When I looked over at them, the bill of my hat a bit in my eyes, I thought: We’ll see if that relationship lasts. And if it does, we’ll see if it’s still happy when that happens.
Ms. Brunette was actually quite the bitch, when she got down to yelling at me, bitching at me. I guessed by rule of thumb, a woman with assets such as hers was always a bitch; it came with the package. Exceptions exist, thankfully; but not then.
She said, “Oh my god! like how could this take so long, huh?! What the hell’s, like, so hard about making me a burger!” She said, “ It’s, like, two hundred degrees out here, oh my god! like, why do you even need a grill, Jesus Christ!” She said, “What’s your name, anyway. Cause, like, you look pretty damn useless to me! What the hell’s, like, so hard about making a hamburger? It’s so hot out you could’ve, like, grilled it on the ground!” She said, “Like, oh my god! I don’t even think I’m, like, hungry anymore!”
I would’ve ripped off her goddamned head like it was a stuffed animal’s, if I could have; but I was a human, and humans have this goddamned thing called control; a goddamned little bastard which makes us reason with ourselves, not deceive ourselves into doing things we’ll regret—and this woman, she was goddamned lucky I had control at that moment. She was goddamned lucky she had her assets, and she’d attracted Mr. Burly to aid her side so she could, like, I don’t know, be protected; like, oh my god, if she didn’t have those assets, I would’ve, like, beat the shit out of her—the bloody shit out of her, like, totally.
I didn’t care about the goddamned job then; I never had. All I saw in my head was, her head coming off her porn star body, that fluff coming out of her neck, like a stuffed animal’s when you rip its head off. It would’ve been great, but I controlled myself. I found out I really didn’t want to rip her head off, even though I was standing there—even though I was sweating like a pig, my shirt clinging to my side, strands of perspiration coming down my face, clouding my vision; that muggy feeling all over me. I didn’t want to kill her. What I really wanted was to just die. That was the answer. Cease to exist.

Life’s not fair—that’s what they’ve said many a time, and many a time we have all agreed and done nothing. This was another one of those times.
The fairness of it all didn’t matter; it never did. Who the hell cared that this was my first day on the job, that I’d only been there for a few hours; who the hell cared that I was timid, and it was my first job—who in the hell cared? I decided I myself didn’t care anymore. Fuck it, is all I thought. I was hoping I’d be fired right then, and all I said to Ms. Bitch from Hell was, “I’m sorry, m’am.” I’m pretty sure it sounded nasty coming from my mouth; I wasn’t exactly in the most exultant mood ever, and I wasn’t exactly the best at controlling this unexultant mood.
I had managed to appear as if I wasn’t too shaken, nor too stirred, by all that had happened; it was all in a day’s work—it was the way I had been built. It was not a problem. Well, okay, maybe it was; but damned if I was going to show it. Ms. Bitch didn’t deserve to get the satisfaction of my anger; and Marc? he had been kind to me in the end, so I guess I could forgive him; I guess that would be fine. Please and thank you and goodbye.
So Ms. Bitch from Hell got her burger. I hope she’s subsequently had many more burgers, and gained an immense proportion of weight, which has made her Ms. Fat Bitch from Hell. When she did get that burger, and Mr. Bitch’s Man got his meat for the day, Mr. Burly put his hands around her, looked into her eyes as if this was the most romantic moment ever, and said, “Baby, it’s all right”; and then he plucked a kiss right on her, and I would’ve liked to brand on his forehead, “LOSER,” because that was what he was. If anything, Ms. Bitch deserved a nice swift smack on the ass, therefore dislodging her head from her ass. But hell if I was the man to do such a thing; those assets did not belong to a man named I. They belonged to Mr. Burly, as a matter of fact.
As they walked away, she gave me another eulogy; then she was on her way. As the happy, yellow-as-piss couple left, I gave their relationship together a year; I managed a smirk once they were far enough from my sight, when I thought of that. One year—it was 365 days.
365 days of hell.
That was that, and I went back over to Nick, and told him all about Ms. Bitch from Hell and Mr. Burly; it amused him a bit—not too much, though. “I’m used to it,” he said to me; “happens all the time, when it’s hot like this and it’s hard to work—you get customers like that.” I nodded my head.
The rest of the day passed; I got off work at 6 o’clock at night. I had worked six hours, and I was glad when it was over.
When I got home, I was tired as hell; I went right to my room—I didn’t want to talk to my dad, or my mom, about my day, even though that was the first thing they asked when I got in the door. I just said, “It was fine, it was fine, all of it was fine”; and I think they got the cue—that I wanted to be left alone. That it was all fine.
My eyes felt pretty damn heavy; I felt pretty depressed—but I decided I needed to keep to my schedule. I needed to write something. What I did was, I wrote about Ms. Bitch; I wrote a poem about it. It was pretty fun—lifted my spirits—but I still felt pretty apathetical. I had work again tomorrow, and I didn’t want to go too much; all it’d be was the same crap as before.
That was the problem: I couldn’t sleep; the thought of tomorrow made me wish it would never come, and I longed for the past again, when I was a little kid; when it was still happy, and I had fun doing the most stupid of things. I knew it was goddamned gone, though; there would be no getting it back—so I might as well just shut the hell up and sleep, instead of brooding.
It’s funny when you’re tired, and can’t sleep; you just lie there in bed, and the oddest things come to your head, and your primal thoughts hit you. It’s kind of an amazing feeling all the same. It’s interesting like that.
I didn’t get to sleep till pretty damn late; but I did eventually get to sleep.

three3three
We were on the couch, together—just me and her; no one else. She was all on top of me, her leg on my chest, and I was touching that leg. It felt nice and smooth; sleek and nice. I looked up to see who this girl was, and I found it was this girl I had sat by my Sophomore year of English.
I continued rubbing that leg; it felt good to rub it, and she seemed to like it. While I did that, I tried to figure out what the hell her name was; it was this kind of game I played with myself all the time. I’d think through my memory, trying all these names, till one worked. Was her name Suzy?; no, it wasn’t. Was her name Laurie?; no, it wasn’t. Was it Hilary, was it Mandy, was it Mindy, was it Whitney, was it Lacey, was it Lauren, was it Diana; what the hell was it?
I kept at it like that, conning my memory; trying to figure out what the hell her name was—rubbing her leg—and then she leaned in, and started kissing me on the lips.
All the while as she was kissing me, I was trying to remember her goddamned name; I was straining my mind, digging deep in there, and no goddamned name ever fit. Between her kisses, I managed to ask her what her name was, but it didn’t seem she heard me. She was all over me, too into me to hear; and then that was when I woke up.
It was my mom knocking my goddamned door that had woke me up; I was kind of groggy when I first opened my eyes, sort of in a bad mood. I hated it when I was woke up like that, when I was having this nice dream. That girl had been hot, whatever the hell her name was; I wished I was still in the dream, kissing her, her all over me; me trying to remember what the hell her name was. But it was gone, and I heard my mom say, “Honey, are you awake?” through my door.
I told her I was; I also told her to get the hell away, because I wasn’t in the best mood, having been woke up. She listened, telling me that, “You need to get ready for work, honey,” as she left.
That was when the shit hit the goddamned fan, and splattered the hell all over me. My job, where I worked, hadn’t even hit my mind; it was as if it was gone, since I had been sleeping, and I was just waking up. But now—now it was all the way back, with a goddamned vengeance; I wished I didn’t have to worry about it. I realized then how much I hated that goddamned job; I realized it because I was feeling my primal feelings, since I had just woke up, and still wasn’t all the way awake. Goddamnit, was all I thought; goddamnit, goddamnit, goddamnit.
I got up off my bed, threw my pillow all the way across my room in frustration, and got the hell up. My computer screen stared back at me as I stood up; that poem I’d written stared back at me,

“Exploiting beauty/ If only flowers were good to see/ I would love to love my queen/ She’s so beautiful, but a bitch/ Ms. Bitch I see/ She’s got a man who she doesn’t need/ Mr. Burly, her king/ She’s just deceptive, you’ll see/ She’ll gut out your heart and carry it on a string/
Valentine, my valentine/ Love is too much of sex/ If only you weren’t set/ If only you weren’t spoiled/ So go ahead and wither away/ You’re a bitch, as they say/ Your foreplay is your words/ Your kiss is a funeral/ If only you could see/ The hearse is going by/ It’s Ms. Bitch in her coffin/ Getting buried in a tombstone/ Your epithet is frail/ Your beauty will pale/ You are damned/ Guilty of exploiting beauty to no avail/ I shall not pick a flower such as that/ Queen and King must fail/ Mr. Burly and Ms. Bitch will derail/ The end is neigh/ The end I see/ One year/ That’s all it’ll be.”

Reading that again made me smirk a bit; sort of cheered me up. Sure, the poem wasn’t perfect—I thought myself it started out pretty well, but towards the middle it lost its beat. I felt like deleting that half or so of it, and just leaving it up to the part where it says “She’ll gut out your heart and carry it on a string,” but I decided to leave it where it was; it was doing fine. I guessed I sort of liked the whole funeral thing, because that’s the way beauty is, really; it doesn’t last forever, and some people—like Ms. Bitch over here—don’t realize that; and when they lose that beauty, then they’re a waste of time, because they’re just bitches, not pretty bitches. Like I said, “I shall not pick a flower such as that,” and I damned well didn’t. Damned well didn’t

I also liked the “The end is neigh” part, it made me laugh, the way it was; it was great, was all. It made me feel better, reading that whole thing; especially that part.

Feeling better, I looked at the clock; it was 11 o’clock—I had to be to work in less than an hour, if I wanted to be on time; I decided I better get on my way.

Since my uniform had been all covered with meat grease, and other juicy knick-knacks, it turned out my mom had washed it for me; I found that out when I left my room, still in my boxers, and asked her. So I went in and got that from the dryer, put it on, put my cap on my head.

I went to the kitchen—sat down.

She already had a sandwich for me to eat ready to go; she came over with it, set it down on the table, the glass plate making a hollow ding as it went down. The sandwich was cut in half for me, had mayonnaise on it, turkey and ham; it was the way I liked it. I ate it in a hurry, knowing I needed to get going.

But of course, it was time for fifty questions from my mom—and goddamned if I was going to have it; I didn’t have the time, nor did I want to talk about it. She kept asking, “How was your first day at work?”; “Did you like it?”; “Was it hard?”; “Did you meet anyone nice?”; “What did you learn how to do?”; “Anything funny happen?; “Aren’t you happy you’ll finally have your own money?”; “Blah blah blah, blah blah blah, blah blah blah?”

And that’s really all it was—just blah blah blah blah, blah blah blah, on and on—she never shut up, and I didn’t need it then; I was trying to keep in a good mood, so I could function as a human being. But no, she had to give me these tirade of questions. I sort of guessed I could understand it—understood why she was asking—but I cared less. As far as I was concerned, she didn’t need to know a goddamned thing about what happened at work. It really wasn’t too much of an exciting thing. So all I did was, I said “Mmmhmmm” and “Uh-huh” and “Yeah” and “Yes” and “OK” and any other filler comment I had in my arsenal as I ate the sandwich. Eventually, she caught on to it.

“Why won’t you talk to me?” is what she asked. “Don’t you love me?” She gave me this hurt face. Goddamnit, I thought; what the hell does loving have to do with me not wanting to answer this interrogation? I wanted to go off on her, but I held myself back, just like I did when Ms. Bitch was all over me. I exercised my control.

I simply said, “Look, mom, I just don’t want to talk about it”; “I’ve got to go back there soon, and it’s just the last thing I want to talk about.” All she did was, she looked at me, right in the face. It was a whatever-I’m-sick-of-caring-and-asking-so-fine-then face—she had finally gave up and took up her fate. The look on her face wasn’t too kind, but I took it. I acted like I was built, and took that; it wasn’t anything too bad. She finally left me the hell alone, after that; and thank god. It was the last thing I needed then—I had just gotten happy by reading that poem. I didn’t need it, I wanted to be happy.

I guess looking on it now, I was a jerk; but it’s the way I am—I hate telling people things that I hate to talk about. So I guess it’s just as well.

After I had my sandwich, I poured myself a big glass of milk—I chugged the thing down, felt it go down my throat, nice and cold—it felt good; then I went over and brushed my teeth, because my breath was wretched. Also because it’s what I do, to ease the stress.

When I was done with that, it was off to work. I went back out to my POS car, unlocked it with my key. The first thing I noticed, just as I was stepping in my car, was that it was a windy day; this tree beside my car, its branches were bending from it. That wind also blew my hair all over. I guessed it was a nice change from yesterday, when it had been warm as hell, not a goddamned cloud in the sky.

I also looked up at the sky, as I got in my car; it was nice and gray, nice and full of heavy color. I liked it. I hoped it would rain that day.

I got to work five minutes early, got out of my car, went on over to the grill place. Marc was there, looking just as grotesquely fat as the day before, and the day before that. Nick wasn’t there, though; instead, there was this girl.

She had sandy brown hair, these nice semi-circle cheeks, decent-sized breasts that heaved out from her work clothes; I also saw she had a nice tush, since that’s one of those things I really like on a woman. But as if you care about that. I guess it’s obvious though, that I was taken by her. She was pretty beautiful, I thought. I would’ve done her in a second, if I could’ve. Hell if that was going to happen, I thought, as I looked her over that first time.

We sat on down on these cheap plastic chairs; there was also a table to the chairs, just as cheap as hell as the chairs. They were for customers to sit on and eat. It was goddamned lawn furniture, for god’s sake. Marc had probably gotten them from the grocery store the grill place was beside.

She sat across from me, with her hat on her head, like me. I didn’t say anything to her, I was too goddamned shy; I didn’t even know if I wanted to say anything to her, anyway. Then I would find out what kind of personality she had. It was definitely an awkward moment, because she didn’t say anything; we just sat there—me eyeing her from the corner of my eye, acting as if I was watching the clouds up in the sky with the most earnest damned interest you’d ever see. She doing whatever the hell she was doing—I was guessing something of the same, probably with a lot less intent interest and attraction than I had.

The five minutes went slow as hell; but they went, eventually. It was time to get to work. I told myself I would be goddamned glad when it was over; today wasn’t my day. At all. But I supposed having this beautiful lady working beside me would help for sure.

I’m sure many men have said it before me, but I guess I’ll say it again—women are goddamned beautiful; to me, they are the only thing truly beautiful in this world—every time I see one, I can’t believe there could be something like that, here on this vapid, insipid place we call earth. But there is, and I’m goddamned glad for that, I suppose.

So it was off to work. I was still being trained, since I hadn’t mastered how to cook all the way; in fact, I found out she had a different way of cooking than Nick. I still liked Nick’s way better; Nick was just a great fellow, and I trusted him much more, and listened. With her, it was always a distraction—I would look at her, and that was all I would think about to escape that goddamned job I was at; she was my only absolution there, the only thing that kept me going that day.

One point during the day, I asked her what her name was; and she told me. I found out her name was Vivica. I told her, “I’ll just call you Viv, now, then.” It was then that she asked me what my name was.

I’ve never really cared for names, just like old Juliet said in Shakespeare’s play. I really could care goddamned less. So I said to her, “Well, you can go ahead and call me Wenton.” And of course, she asked me then what my real name was; I couldn’t tell her—it was just the way I am. My name didn’t matter. So I said to her, “My real name doesn’t matter, y’know; it’s just a slave name, it’s like a social security number, only it’s letters; it’s a social security with letters. I’d rather have a name that’s better than that, that’s my own. You get it?”

She sort of nodded her head slowly. “You’re weird,” is what she said, giving me this weird look; I wasn’t sure what was in the look—I hadn’t known her long enough. “You scare me, I think.” I didn’t say anything back—I thought that was great. If I had creeped someone out, then that was good for me. Plus, I had this feeling she was just playing hard to get; I had this feeling that she actually liked the fact that I freaked her out. Or maybe I was wrong, for all I knew; I didn’t really care. There were plenty of beautiful stunning women out there, I wasn’t going to worry about one when there were others; others who might like me better.

After a while longer of working—me learning her way of grilling, me handing up orders for old Marc—she said, “I’ll call you Went, then, if you’d like.” I pointed to my name tag I had pinned on my shirt.

“Went’s the name,” I said. With an entirely fake smile. Viv gave me another one of those looks of hers—I figured that look meant she was weirded out by my smile; and that was good enough for me.

When the day was finally over at 6 o’clock, I was damned happy to see it come; it had been the longest damned day for me. There had been plenty of being yelled at by Marc, plenty of talking small talk with Viv, plenty of asshole customers. It was all in a day’s work, I supposed.

I got in my car, drove off home, feeling tired and depressed again. I didn’t have work the next day, but I was just so goddamned sick of society, and the goddamned way it was; I wished then that I could change it.

At home, it was the same thing; my parents asked me again and again about work, and all I told them was it was fine, and that I was goddamned tired. Fine, it was all fine; they had nothing to worry about.

I sat down at my computer but nothing would come out; I was dry as hell, I couldn’t write anything. I wrote something that was shit entirely; something I swear was feces, and I deleted it; all of it. I sat there with my head on my desk, closed my eyes, feeling frustrated. Why the hell couldn’t I write something? It was the goddamned job, wasn’t it? It was stealing all my energy. Or was it something else? Why couldn’t I write something; I wanted to be a goddamned writer when I grew up. How the hell was I to do it when I couldn’t write when I needed to keep to my routine of writing so many hours a day? What the hell was wrong with me?

I turned off the computer’s monitor uselessly, and laid down in my bed, staring up into the darkness at my ceiling; I was thinking about things—thinking them over. I knew brooding over them like this did nothing.

I fell asleep eventually, lulled to the lullaby that I didn’t have to work tomorrow, and that I could go to my friend’s house, or something, or just anything—just anything to get the hell out of what I was in right now. I knew that would be enough to raise my spirits.

Eyes closed, the blackness ensued; the workings of the brain called dreams stirred on in, showing what cannot be.
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Saturday, October 2, 2004

There's distraction, there's action. There's anything you'd want to see, all you wish you'd be. . .

. . .such a sweet nothing

The dance last night was not as good as it could have been. I'd asked two girls to go with me prior, and one said she couldn't, the other said, "I don't know," which in woman-speak probably means "No."

I found out that the one girl I'd asked, Carly, who's a sophomore and seemed to show some interest in me, had been taken by some guy who had a cowboy hat. Mr. Cowboy.

[On a side note, I've noticed a lot more women noticing me this year. I've come out of my shell, so to speak, both physically and mentally. I feel I'm nearing the prime of my life. I'm no longer shy at all, but more or else a crazy bastard - full of sarcasm, wit, sexual bravado. ]

I stood there and watched them on the dance floor. They were all on each other, Mr. Cowboy and her.

The other girl I asked, Chelsea Lee, I don't even think she went to the dance. Sean Forester said he'd seen her, sometime when the dance had just begun, but I couldn't find her.

Also when I first got there, Andrew Jinx's girlfriend Angie was all over me a little bit, but Andrew's such a cool guy that I'd never think of stealing his girlfriend, and nor do I think it meant much of anything. She danced with Alan Bahr more than me, anyway.

They also played terrible music at the dance. . .it was all this rap-dance shit. It made me want to just leave.

They did play some good songs. . .but not many. There also weren't many slow songs, either.

When they did play a rock song, Austin Fay and I got a mosh pit going. It was the first time I've moshed, and while I was doing it, breathless, elbowed, the left lens of my glasses fell out, as it's wont to do, and has done in the past on a number of occasions.

So I had to stand there, all the people moshing, and find it, search the ground. I was feeling panic a little, because if I didn't find it I was screwed. But there it was, glimmering, and I nudged in and got it.

At the last song of the night, I danced with some freshman from Washburn. Apparently, she had gotten invited here by some guy, and the guy had left her, the bastard. Hopefully I made her feel better.

Not much else happened other than that. If there is another dance, they better play better music, or else I'd rather just listen to my own music and dance myself.

Right now, I'm going for a jog.

Then it's to work, 5 - close.
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Thursday, September 30, 2004

Somewhere Out There, cont.

III

Sometimes, you just disappear. It’s the greatest feeling you’ll ever feel. It’s a thing you live for.

When you lie back, and you just disappear. When you lull off, and you just escape, you’re no longer here in this world. No longer in its struggles. You’re not in the humdrum. Not in the reality.

It’s when things keep going on, but you’re not there.

It’s where you’re still existing, but there’s no pain. There’s no anything, but this feeling you’re gone. You’ve disappeared.

People, they take drugs to feel like that. People, they have sex to feel like that. People die, to feel it all the time.

It’s not a feeling you feel often. It’s not something that’s always there. You can’t force it, because it won’t come if you do.

Disappearing like that, it’s how you wish life was. You wish it wasn’t so much suffering, wasn’t so much let-down after let-down, take-down after take-down. Wasn’t such a disappointment.

It’s the closest to dying, but not dying, when I was in her arms, sleeping.

When you sleep, you’re weightless. You have no weight.

When Laurice and I were in each other’s arms, lying there on the rocky surface of the tombstone, the crickets chirping, looking at the stars. We were gone. We weren’t there. We were somewhere else, someplace you never thought existed, someplace you thought was imagination. Laurice and I, we’re in bliss. We don’t know anything then, but each other, and we close our eyes.

Your mind, your mental self, it still remains, but the physical’s blurred. It’s almost as if the mental’s physical. As if there’s no difference between the two. Like they’re one.

That type of feeling, that type of moment, it’s nothing you’d give up for the world. Somehow, it makes it worth it to live.

IV

The sun comes up, rises its happy self to the sky. Laurice and I, we kept sleeping, disappearing.

We’re woke up by this old woman coming to a grave there. She’s this orthodox woman, she’s obese. She says, “Wake on up, now!”

We react. Our eyes come open, and we look around. It’s those few seconds when you’re coming back into place, where you’re coming back from disappearing. Where your mind’s blank. Where nothing matters and it’s okay you feel none of it matters. When it’s okay to be an apathetical monster.

Startled, we let go of each other, and scathe around the ground for our clothes. I find her bra. She finds my boxers. We switch articles of clothing, then scathe around some more. I find my jeans, my shirt, she finds her clothes, too.

We put everything on, quick.

She’s still looking at us, the sun’s lighting her up. She makes the cross around her with her hand, says, “Father, son, holy spirit, amen.” She says, “I hope He will forgive you two, for what you’ve done. Adultery, lechery, copulation, fornication! A deadly sin.”

We say nothing. We want this old bag to go along her way.

She says, “And Jesus, he died upon the cross, he suffered for these sins, so you’ll be forgiven. So you’ll go to heaven. Satan has his nefarious grip upon you two. You’re getting closer to hell already.”

I say, “We’re sorry.”

If there’s sarcasm in my voice, or not, I don’t know.

She says, “Sorry? To me? You should be sorry to Him, if you want to be absolved. You’ve committed a wretched sin, after all. You’ve got to pay penance for it. I’d suggest going to the church, and telling your sin, so you can be forgiven.”

By this time, I’d like to scream at her to shut the hell up, she’s ruining how great last night was. I say nothing, though. These old women, living to die, they don’t have a clue what’s it like to live. To give into your impulses. To satisfy yourself.

She finally turns around, her fat, it wobbles with her, as she goes into the distance, with a flower in hand, putting it upon a grave a ways away. It’s probably her dead husband. She probably thinks the dumb fuck’s in heaven, like she thinks she’ll be.

I squint, to see if I can see what she’s doing now. It looks like her lips’re moving. She must be telling a goddamn prayer.

I say to Laurice, “Religious zealots, can’t leave home and not find one.”

She says, her hair a sexy tangle from sleeping on it, “Got that right.” I’m sure my hair’s all sticking up, too.

I say, “Let’s get the hell out of here, shall we, kids?”

So we go to my car. And leave.

On the way to her house, to drop her off, I tell her, “Last night was wonderful.”

She says, “Yeah, and what else is new?”

I say, “Nothing else’s new.” And I give her a grin. And she gives me a grin. I want to touch her hair. I say, “I’ve got something that’s new, actually.”

She says, “What?”

I say, “Your hair looks really sexy this morning, I want to touch it.”

She says, “And you were calling who perverse lately?”

I say, “Like I said, I’m a crazy bastard. I’ve got a libido the size of the titanic.”

“I’m sure my tits are more titanic.”

”I’m pretty sure they are. But, it’s the way we men are, you know. Especially me, a crazy bastard. Sex is on our mind quite often, especially when women have sexy black hair going whichway over. Us crazy bastards like it. It drives us mad.”

She says, “These so-called ‘crazy bastards’ sound like some kind of cult. I’d like to join.”

“Maybe you’ll get to. You’ve got to learn from me first, the number one crazy bastard.” We pull into her driveway. I say, “And here we are, queen. Your royal cottage.”

She says, “Sure is shitty for a royal cottage. I’m disappointed, king, I expected better.”

“Maybe someday,” I say. “First, the king has to get a good job.” We step outside.

We step up to each other, and wrap our arms around each other. We give each other a parting kiss on the lips, and I grab her hair. She gives a smile about me touching her hair. I say, “Parting is such sweet sorrow.”

She says, “You can go ahead and lament all about leaving me, get in a mire and everything. I’m going to go to my cottage now.” She turns, and she’s walking away. I can’t help but grin at her witticism. I watch her butt as she waddles away, womanly and attractive. I watch her black hair, all over and sexy.

When she’s slammed the door to her royal cottage, I step into my wagon – it’s got quite a lot of horsepower, but not as much as me – and I return to my royal gallows, my dorm. The place with bars, where the only way to obtain the key is to procure it by a degree, by paying money and getting an education in a specified field.

Then, I can eventually be king of my own castle.
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Wednesday, September 29, 2004

Somewhere Out There

I

Somewhere out there, someone’s dying. Giving those last breaths, and their life’s leaving them.

His name’s Bobbie Sanders. He’s a teacher, in New York City.

Her name’s Lindie Miller. She’s a nurse, in Dallas, Texas.

I can feel them, all of them. I can see them dying, like they’re doing it right here in front of me. Like Bobbie’s lying in his sleep, his heart slowly scuttling to a stop. Like Lindie’s right here, in the hospital, wearing white, cancer getting the best of her. I can hear the EKG going off the line, going to that beep, beep, beep. . .then nothing.

Silence.

How ironic, a nurse dying from cancer. Someone who’s out there to help the sick, the ill: she dies from what she fights herself.

When you think about it, every second, someone’s dying, somewhere. Maybe it’s right next door to you. Maybe it’s that shitty neighbor you always hated, who you never talk to – who you’re enemies with. Maybe it’s that bitchy-ass teacher you’ve got at college, the one who never shuts the fuck up about anything, and talks about nothing, and promptly yells at students when they don’t do jack shit in her classes.

Maybe who’s going to die next, that’s you.

We’re all mortal here on this plane of existence. We live from one moment, to the next.

One moment you’re a peachy, preppy happy little creature. The next second, you’re walking across the street, a drunk driver speeds by, runs you over, you die.

One moment, you’re having sex with your hot girlfriend – she’s got a nice ass – and you’re stradling her so hard, you get a heart attack, since your poor heart couldn’t handle it. And you die.

One moment, you find a sore on your arm, and you find out it’s skin cancer, and you find out it’s metastasized already, and that you’re going to die from cancer. You go through Chemo, but you die.

One moment, you’re a ninety-something reject in a nursing home, and your weak-ass heart, it just fucking quits on you, and you eat the big shit up in the sky.

One moment, you’re skinny dipping out in the river, then you fall into the oncoming rush, and you full under, run out of breath, and you die from where you once came from – where once upon a time, there were simple cells, weird-ass fuckers who turned into many life forms – one being humans, you.

One moment, you’re being a jackass with your friends, jumping off this cliff’s edge. You fall and land on your spinal cord, and sever the goddamn thing all the way in half, and you’re fucking dead as doornail.

One moment you’re alive, and another you’re dead. That’s the way it works, the way it’ll always work, probably, even as much as we try to find that fountain of youth – that immortality.

I can hear them. Moaning, groaning, spasming. I can feel the heart’s thuds get shorter, shorter, and so fucking gone. I can feel the winding in of breath, can feel it like it’s on my lips. I can feel it getting weaker, weaker, so fucking gone. I can feel the blood stop flowing. I can sense the oncoming decay. I can smell death. I can lick it with my tongue. Kiss it with my lips. See it with my eyes. Feel it tingling on my fingertips. Feel it numbing my toes.

This one guy. Jessie Davis, he’s dying right now. The poor fuck, his heart’s clogged to shit. Too much cholesterol, too much going to all those buffets, all over America like a plague of death. Too much going to McD’s, Burger King, Arby’s, Wendy’s. Too many cows he’s eaten, too many hamburgers. He must’ve eaten one hundred full cows, with all that fat he’s got. With those arteries he’s got, clogged to hell. He should’ve laid off the fries for a while. Maybe had some salads. Maybe went for some jogs. But now, he’s so screwed, there’s the only fact of the matter that he just has to not be a virgin. That’s how screwed he is. How fucked. How utterly, completely.

You have to wonder, how many ways. How many ways are there to die?

You could do suicide. That alone has so many ways. You could do a homicide. So many ways there, too. Execution. Natural causes. Cancer. Diseases. Viruses. Illnesses. Accidental deaths. It goes on, just goes on and and on and on. Endlessly.

Now, how many ways are there to be born?

Only one. Uno. That’s it.

The only way you’re born, is when your parents fuck each other. Give into the lust, the love – whatever it’s called to you. It’s still sex, pure and simple.

The only way you’re born, is when you come out of that womb, pure and simple. When your mom pushes one out. Pops one out.

The sperm, the zygote, they come together, coalesce. Then there you’re on the way to coming into this hellhole.

It’s unfair. There should be almost limitless ways to be born, too.

What’s even more unfair is, you should have a choice in the matter – you should be able to choose if you want to be born – if you want to come to this fuck-ass place.

The question is, how would you be born?

Would you appear out of thin air? Would you drop from the sky, bump your head, get taken by someone?

Me, I’d make it all fucked up. I’d fuck with it. What I’d do is, I’d make dying like being born. I’d make it so that it’d be like being reborn. Like inhabiting someone’s dead body.

Right now, Lisa Tanner, she’s dying. A gunshot to the head, point blank. A burglar did it. The fuck face. I mean, Jesus H.

Lisa Tanner, she’s got these nice, perky breasts. What I’d do, is I’d take her body. Just somehow, come in there and take it, make it come back to life. It’d be a real miracle. And then, I’d be born. It’d be like grafting my mind into hers – I’d have my personality, but none of my memory. It’d be all erased.

I’d think I was Lisa Tanner, for all I knew. A pretty, well-asseted voluptuous goddess.

Wouldn’t it be good to be so selective? To actually be what you wanted to be?

Death just seems like so much more fun than being born ever will be. With death, you can do what you want, if you take it into your own hands. If you do what you want with it.

I know, so many ways to die, so little time.

One moment, you think you’ve got control. The next, you don’t, your whole life’s gone as hell, and you’re some old bat, and you’re dying.

Hopefully, I’ll die young. Isn’t that the way to do it these days? Be something like Jim Morrison, or whatever else you’ve got. Die when you’re young so everyone remembers you young, so you become immortal, so you don’t have to suffer through this useless rent of existence.

I mean, those who die young, I think they’ve got it lucky. They’ve got an advantage.

II

Tonight, the sky’s blackest bleak. The stars do shine, but I might as well not see them. The moon, it’s out, and full. Looks like that face that it isn’t. Those two eyes that’re craters, that mouth that’s probably craters, too.

She steps out the door with me, Laurice. She’s this girl I know. Met her at college.

Laurice, she’s a brunette. Black hair, black as the sky tonight. It’s long, waves in the night air. She’s got a thin nose, pouty woman lips, black eyes. She’s the way I like women, black hair, beautiful.

We step in my car, I put the keys in.

She says, “So we’re going through with this?”

I tell her we are. We’re going to the cemetery, and we’re going to look up at the black menacing sky, we’re going to listen for ravens, we’re going to read the epithets on the tombstones, the forgotten names, the dates. I tell her, “What’s there to be afraid of, Laurice?”

Maybe there’s sarcasm in my voice, maybe there isn’t.

She gives me a you-know-what look, but manages a grin on that pretty face. I grin back. We’re grinning at each other, now. I say, “Well, the engine’s running, our grins’re grinning – let’s get this show on the road, kids.”

She says, “Beam me up, Scotty.”

We drive off.

Half an hour later, we pull up to the cemetery. It’s way out of town, like you’d expect. All dark, gloomy, morose, as you’d expect. It’s named Helphenter Cemetery, and as we drive up, on the dirt road, dust whichway all over, I brake, and we come to a halt. I say, “Here we are,” my hands still clutching the wheel.

She says, “Yep.”

I take off my hands, and open the door, step out. She follows me, and we stand outside the gate, a while. Just look at it, listen.

I say, “I can hear the dead moaning.”

She says, “I can hear you moaning.”

I give a startled chuckle and say, “Aren’t you perverse as hell.”

She says, “Why of course,” and I tell her that’s what I’d expect from a girl such as Laurice is.

You can see shadows, out there. See those gravestones jutting up, as something hidden. You see crosses, rectangular blocks, arches. You see some flowers all around, gray in the night. You get to thinking, and you realize there’s bodies all over this place, only concealed.

Then there’s the gate.

I say, “Let’s go, shall we?”

She says, “Okay. But you lead.”

I say, “What, scared?”

She says, now in a whisper, “Yes, I am.” Then, “Because I’m scared for my big, strong man’s life.”

I say, “Oh, you bitch.”

She says, “Oh?”

I say, “Well, I take it back. How’s ‘sexy bitch’ sound?”

She says, “Just go already.”

So I do. The gate, with Helphenter Cemetery on it, I open. It creaks, loud.

When it stops creaking, I say, “The thing could use some lubricant.” I say it knowing she’ll probably give something back, all perverted. I figure it’ll help keep me from running away like a little baby. Plus, who can beat flirting with a hot dame?

She says, “Sounds like what you could use.”

I give a grin, say, “I knew that one was coming.”

“Some other thing is going to be coming, soon.”

I say, “You’re just sick.” And I grab her hand, and say, “But even if you’re sick, I need you by my side, Laurice.”

“As do I,” she says. I tense my muscles, pushing hard, on and off, squeezing her hand.

I say, “We’re going to die here.”

She says, “That makes one of us. Just walk already, and stop squeezing my hand.”

“Yes queen,” I say. And walk over to the nearest gravestone, not squeezing her hand.

“That’s right. You’re my slave.”

We bend down, together. Read this first tombstone. It’s a dull rectangular block, and through the full moon’s light, we can read it.

I say, “Thomase Went, 1920 – 1996. R.I.P.”

She says, “He sure died an old bastard.”

I say, “What? Seventy-six is ‘an old bastard’? I’d say, no.”

”I’d say, yes.”

”Well fuck you.”

”Eventually,” she says, and we’re looking each other in the face, now. She says, “But first, let’s look around some more.” Her hair’s all over, barely seen in the blackness. Her face is pretty.

I say, “Come hither, queen, hie in haste. Thou shalt be rapt whence we view more.” I take her hand again, lead her over to the next tombstone, and the next one after that, and the next one after that.

At one tombstone – it’s Donald Moller’s – I say, “Donald’s such a lame name. But, you know what Shakespeare said about names.”

She says, “They don’t matter.”

At one tombstone, Lyod Franfer’s, I say, “Really, I can hear the dead moaning.” I squeeze her hand.

She says, “You’re such a liar. I bet you’re imagining me moaning, in your head, right now.”

I say, “What if I am?”

“I guess that would make me dead, then? Since you said you hear the dead moaning?”

Eventually, we get tired of looking at the tombstones. We sit down on Ronald Downy’s tombstone, he died 1987. It’s a big tombstone, big enough for us both to sit on, if we squeeze in a bit.

In the distance, there’s crickets making that noise, the one that’s so familiar.

I say, “That noise, those crickets. That’s the noise of night.” I say, “It just goes along with night, doesn’t it?” I look over at her, she’s looking up at the sky. Her eyes look beautiful. She looks beautiful. Her hair, it’s flat and moving a bit on the tombstone’s surface. Her legs hang a bit over the edge. Her breasts push up against her shirt, since she’s lying down, giving them more tone.

Her lips moving, she says, “Yeah, it does.” Her voice sounds like a dreamer’s. It sounds with fragility.

She says, “It’s so beautiful out here.”

I say, “Yes it is. And, you’re beautiful.”

She leans over to me, we’re face to face, some of her hair’s touching me. I grab her back, she puts her arms around my nape. I feel her breath when she says, “You’re beautiful, too.”

I say, “Not as much as you.” I say, “I’m a crazy bastard, anyway.”

“But since you’re a crazy bastard, that makes you so beautiful.”

I say, “Guess so, doesn’t it?”

She leans in, for a kiss, and I accept. The lips, they’re one of the most sensual parts of the body, and I feel it, when she kisses me.

The rest of the night, it swirls around, it’s all a blur.

We do it atop that tombstone, her with her perky breasts, her beautiful brunette hair, her pouty lips, her thin body. Me, a crazy bastard.

When we’re done, we lie atop the tombstone, in each other’s arms, and stare at the sky together. I stroke her hair a bit, while we’re lying there. I say, “I love the night.” She says, “Yes, it’s so serene, and peaceful.” Both our voices must sound like dreamers’ voices.

We don’t say much else. What’s unsaid, it’s conveyed in other ways. Just by the look in her eyes, when she looks at me, when I look at her. The way we hold each other, I stroke her hair.

We fall asleep, there, in each other’s arms, naked.
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Tuesday, September 28, 2004

Embryology me

My libido has been abnormally large lately. Yet, there is nothing to satiate it. Sadness.

I feel tired right now, I guess. I don't know what it is. I'm not exactly in a bad mood. . .but I am, at the same time. The whole goddamned "foul is fair" garbage, I know.

There's many things I could speak of, yet I just don't really want to speak of them, when I think about it. I also just don't have the time. . .well, I do have the time but I use it for other things.

My eyes felt kind of heavy, but now they're getting better. I'm thinking the main reason they got feeling as heavy and irratated and sleep-wanting as they did was because, in my Algebra II class, some girl put on this large dose of perfume, and it was just nauseating to smell. Must've irratated my eyes.

I can't stand it when a girl does that. They don't need to utterly reek of perfume. Sure, perfume smells good in moderation, but when you spray the it like you're trying to kill a weed, it smells like shit. And is unbearable. And makes me want to murder.

So, that's about it. Work is soon. Then, I've got tests to study for, other garbage. . .as if you care about that. But, let me say, school's starting to get into whole fucking swing, and I'm getting tired of it quickly. . .but alas, there is a thing called perseverence. I'll try, my fellow lackeys. I'll try.

You better love me for it.

What I'd like to say, though, is that Disgaea, which Tony got me to buy for $50, is indeed a great game. It's so refreshingly different, in some senses.

The entire story is pretty fun. Mainly because of the way it's executed. It actually makes you want to play the game, which is hard to get me to do.

The game's got 16-bit (maybe a little better than 16-bit, I guess, graphics) graphics, and it's on the PS2. It's so old school, yet not. It's a strategy RPG, in the vein of Final Fantasy Tatics.

Although, it gives FFT a run for its money. The game's that good. It also isn't as god-awfully hard as FFT (thinking about the hardness of that game makes me want to strangle some bananas). (Yes, I am not gay.)

In other news, fuck me.
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Monday, September 27, 2004

So what do you feel like choking on tonight?

I've got Choke on audiobook, now. Chuck reads it.

I'm listening to it right now.

I'm going to order some stickers from his site, too, and a Choke t-shirt.

Rock on.


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