Cigarette smoke surrounds his head; in better light it would look like a halo, here it just looks like a the cloud that hangs over a battlefield after the fact, stinking of death and decay. The man with the earth brown eyes smashes out the expended cig, fishing in his pocket for another one at the same time. After bringing it to his lips I extend my lighter, obliging him.
He takes a long drag and exhales, sounding relieved. "The best pull is the first." He tells me, brown eyes begging to convey the importance of this seemingly insignificant fact. "This..." he indicates the cigarette in his hand,"Is like life. the beginning is sweet, delicious. the end is bitter, and comes too soon."
What was left of my optimism tried to disagree, but the evidence to the contrary was so strong that I just told it to shut up. It's arguements were a sieve, and I was tired of shoveling sand into it.
"Why are you here?" he asks, indicating our surroundings. Red satin sheets decorated the windows ragged in the age, and decrepit couches adorned the walls, leaving a big open area in the middle. The room stank of old cigarette smoke and cheap purfume. The lighting is dim, and does nothing to cheer the place.
Not that I was in the mood for cheering.
"I... Have to know something." I spoke for the first time. He seemed startled by my voice. I will admit, it didn't sound like it usually did. Ragged, torn up with a combination of self hatred and longing.
He recovred quickly. His thick Russian accent making itself known. "How very complicated. I am here to get laid." he chortled. Then with the seeming bipolarity that all Russians I knew posessed he shouted at the girl fluffing pillows across the room. "Get us some vodka bitch! Can't you see this man needs a drink?" As she passed he slapped her ass viciously. To her credit, she didn't say a word. He then turned to me. "Let me tell you something, cigarette?" I shook my head, eyes straight ahead at the door I knew my doom would come through soon. "What you can't solve with a cigarette, you can solve with Vodka."
That got through my veneer. My mouth twisted in a parody of a half smile, grim even to my imagining.
"Ah, a smile! Excellent." The vodka arrived. "Thank you, bitch." he patted her fanny more gently this time, and she smiled indulgently, like a dog given a treat. "Drink. Drink to your health, mine has certainly deteriorated past repair."
Again I couldn't disagree with him. I didn't drink, except to the Corps, and then only rarely, so I turned down the drink. He had other ideas though.
"No. Drink." He shoved the shot glass into my hand, filling his. "To your health."
He kicked it back with no signs of effort. I dumped my in a plant. So much for the plant's health.
"Mr. Koralev?" A soprano voice from the door I had been watching. I knew that voice. "Mrs. Dimitrov is ready for you now."
"Excellent." He hauled his corpulent form to its feet. "I am in need of some cheering up, this man's mood has affected me." He indicated me. I didn't bother to respond, just stared at the girl, stared, now knowing what I came here to know.
***
He was here. He had followed me. I didn't think he would. I had hoped against hope that he wouldn't find me in this gods forsaken hellhole, that he'd just give up, and leave me forsaken, like I knew I was.
Like he now knew I was.
I could watch his eyes change from horror to anger, anger to something else, something I couldn't identify at first. I suddenly realized it was the look he had after he came back, shutting himself down to keep away from the pain. I had to stop that, I had to... Then his eyes died, and I felt something inside me shatter.
He stood up just as my legs gave out. I was lucky the Russian had already disappeared, from what Mary said, torture was better than attracting his brutal attention. Not that I cared, all that mattered was the dead eyes burning holes in my soul from across the room.
"Daniel-" I tired to speak but choked off as he turned away.
"Don't talk to me." His voice was the same, but cold in a way it had never been to me before. He paused though, at the door. "I had hoped it wasn't true." voice as dead as the eyes.
A sob escaped my throat. My body was betraying me. I could lie to customers, why not him? "I love you." I managed to whisper.
***
Hot red anger coursed through me. I'd thought my soul was dead but this new betrayal created agony I had previously thought impossible. Before I knew it I was across the room, pinning her against the wall by her throat.
"Don't. Don't you dare say that. Whore." I spat the words in her face.
"Please." She whispered. I was choking the life out of her.
I dropped her, realizing what my traitorous hands had done. What my traitorous mouth had said. What line I had crossed. Reflexes had kicked in. I had wanted to kill, my body reacted.
The horrors of being a human weapon.
She was coughing horribly. I knew if I hadn't gotten in control faster she would have expired. I knelt down. "Are you okay?" Why did I care?
***
He cared. That's all I could think. Then the black around the edges of my sight swallowed me.
***
"She's in a coma. What the fuck did you do to her?" The doctor was talking.
"I don't know. Something trained into me in basic."
"Marines?"
"Yeah."
"Rough ticket." The doc lit up. Is everyone in this miserable city addicted?
"Will she..?" I trailed off.
"Can't say. There's some brain activity. That's good news, but... I don't know."
"You're a shitty doctor."
"You're a shitty boyfriend. I should get the domestic abuse counsler down here."
"She's not my girlfriend, she's a whore."
"The police then."
I sighed, and rested my head against the wall. Closing my eyes, wanting to die. "Call 'em both. She's my whore girlfriend."
"How's that work?"
"I didn't know she was a whore. Found out. Got angry."
Long silence. "I'll leave you alone kid."
I didn't bother to answer him. I was busy answering myself.
Why did I save her? 'Because you didn't want her to die.' the voice in my head said.
True. Why?
'Because you still care. Even after she did this to you.'
She killed me inside. I'm just a shell now.
'So is she.'
I slammed my fist against the wall in frustration. She betrayed me. Me, lied to me. Left me to find her in that hole. Why did she leave me?
'Maybe she didn't have a choice.'
The figure on the bed moaned.
"Doc!" I yelled, racing for the bed.
***
I opened my eyes to his face. "Daniel." The word sounded mushy, jumbled up.
"Shhh, it's okay, don't try to talk." he reached out, then snatched his hand back as though he'd been burned. I could feel a single tear escape my eye.
He saw it and reached out again, not heasitating this time, scooping it up with his finger.
"I'm sorry." I whispered. "They said they'd kill you."
"They tried anyway." He growled.
She looked more horrified, if possible. "They said..."
"They lied. Guess they knew I'd come after you. Even after you betrayed me."
I turned away at that. He couldn't have held her eyes anyway. I could tell he had been hoping it wasn't me, but I was done lying to him.
"I couldn't stand the thought of you being out of this world, even if I couldn't have you." she said to the wall. "They used that to it's fullest extent."
Neither of us said anything for a while. Then I heard something I'd never heard before. It sounded like he was choking on something, I turned quickly and saw him wiping moisture from his eyes. That set me off too. Damn my worthless eyes.
"I'm sorry." I whispered and heard him echo it. "Why are you sorry?" We both said at the same time. A tearful laugh.
He looked into my eyes, dead blue eyes pleading. "Forgive me."
I shook my head. "Forgive me."
***
Some hours later.
"She'll be fine." The doctor was smoking again. I'd been in the city too long, I was starting to enjoy the stench. "I'm discharging her tomorrow, but watch her carefully, weird shit sometimes happens with injuries like hers. First sign of something odd and you haul ass back here."
Relief. It didn't surprise me. I had curled up with her and slept, the first time in days. It was good to be home. Other men had been in my house, but she loved me. and that's all that mattered. "Thanks doc."
"You're welcome." He left.
"Come back to bed." A half asleep moan.
"Something I have to take care of."
She threw the baby blew hospital covers off herself in panic. "Don't."
"I have to." I smiled at her wanly. "I'll be back in a bit."
"Please don't go. Please, they'll kill you."
"No. I'll kill them."
"Please." But I was gone.
***
I couldn't sleep. Please God, I know I say I don't belive in you but I do, bring him back to me. Please, I gave him up so he'd be safe, now I get him again and he goes and tries to get himself killed. Please, please bring him home safe.
I got worse. The doctor wouldn't release me the next morning. Said something was wrong with my head.
He had it backwards, something was wrong with my heart.
I hadn't slept in a week when the blackness returned.
***
"Did you tell her you loved her?" The man in the cheap buisiness suit held a gun to my head.
"No."
"Why not? You've told my agents plenty of times, right before you blew their brains all over whatever wall they were standing in front of."
"Actions speak louder than words."
"You're proving your love by killing the men who used her to get to you. How sickly romantic."
"Call it ensuring continued safety. I knew you weren't exactly planning to leave us alone."
"And now I'll kill you anyway, and come to collect her debt after." I hung my head, out of options. All but one.
"Die." he whispered, and I moved. I felt a searing pain along my cheek but kept moving, knowing if I stopped I'd never see her face again. His cheap suit smelled like cheap cologne. Then the acrid copper smell of blood assaulted my nostrils. I didn't even remember drawing the knife at the small of my back.
Benifits of being a human weapon.
His last breath stank too.
***
I awoke again, kind of. I couldn't see. Or move.
"What happened?"
"My Gods man! Your face! let me take a look at that!"
"No, it's fine, just a scratch."
"It most certainly is not! Nurse!" I wanted to open my eyes, I wanted to get up and rush to Daniel and see what stupid injury he'd gotten. I was so relieved he was still alive that I didn't evne care though. My body refused to move, my eyes refused to open. I raged silently.
"It's fine Doc, tell me what's wrong with her!"
"You left, she stopped sleeping. That and whatever the fuck you did to her was a poor combination for her health."
"What can you do?"
"Nothing. This is the kind of thing that she either comes out of or doesn't."
"There must be something."
"Talk to her, I don't know if she can hear you. Maybe. Do you love her?"
"Yes."
"Tell her that."
"I can't."
I heard the doctor's exhasparated sigh.
"I don't have to tell her Doc, she knows."
"It might help."
A long pause.
"Let me look at your face." The doctor again.
"It's been a while since I got it. too Long for you to fix."
"Let me see."
"It'll be fine."
The doctor sighed again. It was getting to be a habit. "Fine." Big, clomping steps carried him away.
Then His voice, right next to my ear. I knew he'd try. Because I knew he loved me. But I was afraid. Everyone he'd told he loved had died. I wanted it, and feared it.
"Noble born gift of the Gods..." It was a plea, and a prayer. "Return to me. I..." he stopped, and when he spoke again his voice was filled with tears. "I love you. I... Can you hear me? I love you... This is nonsense." He was talking to the air, bad habit of his. "You know it. No need to say it, I shouldn't have to say it to anyone. Isn't it enough that I feel it? I feel it with everything I am. Monster that I am I can still somehow feel it, and I know you know I feel it. I shouldn't need to spout the words. I feel it less with the words. I'd fill the whole Gods damned room with it if you cut me. I feel it. Isn't that enough?"
It was in that moment that I decided to live.
Hours? (Days) later, I opened my eyes.
He was still there. I knew he would be.
"Is it done?" I asked, before he could get a word out.
He nodded, unable to speak. I noticed an angry red scar across his cheek. I wanted to ask, but didn't.
I reached out with my feeble hand and he took it. "Don't ever leave me again."
"I think I can manage that."
Fin.
"My gift is my song, and this one's for you..."
-Christian, Moulin Rouge.
Sunday, February 22, 2009
That guy: Etiquette
A brief list.
It is a basic assumption, but a well tried one.
If you are at a concert, it is because you like the band.
If you do not like the band, you should not be at the show.
If you don’t like the opening bands, deal. You’re there for the headliners.
If there is more than one headliner, and you don’t like one of them, either deal if they play first, or leave after ‘your’ show is over.
Don’t boo. See above reasons.
Rules for a ‘softer’ show:
Crowd surfing is always a good thing.
However, crowd surfing in a crowd of 14yearold girls doesn’t work so well. They simply lack the upper body strength to send you around.
Also, sides of beef should not crowd surf. A crowd surfer should be easy to lift and fling. Not a grotesque workout. Stay down, fattie.
You are not at a hardcore show. Do not try to mosh.
If you do try to push people, expect to be pushed back.
People. You are at a show. Movement and violence happen. If you start getting pushed, deal. No need to flip a shit. If people fall over, help them up. You’re at Jimmy and the Pop Princess, not BloodSlaughter. Be courteous.
If you are at a softer show, expect lots of underage girls. Always, ALWAYS check id. If they are too young to smoke afterwards, it shouldn’t be happening. You do not know this person. There is no guarantee you’re covered because she said it’s ok.
There are lots of girls there. That means lots of screaming. Really loud screaming.Deal.
Girls, you are 12. Do not throw your training bra on stage. That’s pretty freaking nasty. Also, your parents will be upset they have to pick you up and buy you more. Don’t you have a bedtime?
If you text one more time, I will break your phone in half.
Rules for a hardcore show:
YOU ARE AT A HARDCORE SHOW. THINGS GET CRAZY. FUCKING DEAL WITH IT.
If you are interested in being at the front of the crowd, you are going to be squeezed. Don’t turn around and try to beat up the guy behind you for being too close.
If you are getting uncomfortable, broken, beaten, or something of the sort, you have three options.
1. Push your way out of the crowd. People will let you out. They will not let you back in.
2. If that doesn’t work, and you’re getting claustrophobic or some shit, you can have the security guys pull you over the fence and escort you to the back of the crowd. It works.
3. Deal. You’re at a hardcore show.
If you are not interested in moshing, you should go see a ‘soft’ show. Get tickets for GlamourSugarTeenPop next time. Your first mistake was coming to see Facebreak, with special guest I Will Kill Your Dog With Metal.
If you are interested in moshing, enjoy. If the lead singer tells you he wants to see a circle pit in the middle, and you are not already in the middle, you will have to push your way in. The people in front of you not participating are sacrifices. Destroy them.
People. YOU ARE AT A HARDCORE SHOW. If you get forced into the pit, either deal, or make your way to one of the ends, and push out.
Screaming is ok. If you can hear yourself over the music, you shouldn’t be screaming.
If they want you to wave your lighter, do it. If you don’t have one, DON’T use your phone. It’s not really that cool at all.
Crowd surfing is expected. But when the security guards rip you out of the air before you can touch the guitarist, deal. Go to the back, push forward and try again. You’re a rebel. They can’t stop you.
If you get kicked in the head by a crowd surfer, deal.
If you have a crowd surfer dropped on you, you should have been lifting harder. It’s not gay to lift from the ass, as long as you let go.
Fatties can crowd surf at hardcore shows, but in moderation. There must be at least 3non-fat guys, and 4 attractive girls before a fattie can surf. This count restarts every time chubs get up on the crowd.
If the crowd starts pushing, and people get knocked down, do not help them up. They deserve no mercy. Do everything you can to crush them.
People. Don’t get knocked down. It’s a sign of weakness.
If the band members throw stuff to the crowd, dive bombing is acceptable to obtain said item.
If someone has a grip on said item, don’t claw at their hands to get it.
If it is something like a jacket, or item that can have multiple people holding it, pulling, shoving, and kicking are all allowed to get it fully in your control. If you are the last person holding something, it is yours. Drumsticks don’t count. If you snag one, it is yours, even though other people could have room to grab it.
If you text one more time, I will break your phone in half. Seriously. Is the show not interesting? Then leave! If you really need to text in-between set changes, go do it somewhere else. Like, not the show somewhere else.
General Rules:
Sound Techs. You guys do good things. But imagine yourself in the crowds place. Just because it sounds good on stage, or through a mixer doesn’t mean it’ll sound good in the audience.
Stage Techs: Bands couldn’t function without you. You are key. Just ignore the audience. If they tell you that you’re taking too long, who cares? They’ll appreciate it later, when the sick set up you did makes for a good show.
Musicians: Look alive! It’s called showmanship, remember? Not dullmanship. Also, your techs have very important jobs. You can move around them as well. All they’re trying to do is adjust your mike stand so you can use it. Don’t throw a hissy fit cause they’re in your way.
Audience: Just because you didn’t get anything doesn’t mean you can’t. Just ask. The vocalist of Brave New World gave two kids his drummers drumsticks because they asked. I got the rhythm guitarists pick from We the Kings because I asked a stage tech after the show.
Any questions?
It is a basic assumption, but a well tried one.
If you are at a concert, it is because you like the band.
If you do not like the band, you should not be at the show.
If you don’t like the opening bands, deal. You’re there for the headliners.
If there is more than one headliner, and you don’t like one of them, either deal if they play first, or leave after ‘your’ show is over.
Don’t boo. See above reasons.
Rules for a ‘softer’ show:
Crowd surfing is always a good thing.
However, crowd surfing in a crowd of 14yearold girls doesn’t work so well. They simply lack the upper body strength to send you around.
Also, sides of beef should not crowd surf. A crowd surfer should be easy to lift and fling. Not a grotesque workout. Stay down, fattie.
You are not at a hardcore show. Do not try to mosh.
If you do try to push people, expect to be pushed back.
People. You are at a show. Movement and violence happen. If you start getting pushed, deal. No need to flip a shit. If people fall over, help them up. You’re at Jimmy and the Pop Princess, not BloodSlaughter. Be courteous.
If you are at a softer show, expect lots of underage girls. Always, ALWAYS check id. If they are too young to smoke afterwards, it shouldn’t be happening. You do not know this person. There is no guarantee you’re covered because she said it’s ok.
There are lots of girls there. That means lots of screaming. Really loud screaming.Deal.
Girls, you are 12. Do not throw your training bra on stage. That’s pretty freaking nasty. Also, your parents will be upset they have to pick you up and buy you more. Don’t you have a bedtime?
If you text one more time, I will break your phone in half.
Rules for a hardcore show:
YOU ARE AT A HARDCORE SHOW. THINGS GET CRAZY. FUCKING DEAL WITH IT.
If you are interested in being at the front of the crowd, you are going to be squeezed. Don’t turn around and try to beat up the guy behind you for being too close.
If you are getting uncomfortable, broken, beaten, or something of the sort, you have three options.
1. Push your way out of the crowd. People will let you out. They will not let you back in.
2. If that doesn’t work, and you’re getting claustrophobic or some shit, you can have the security guys pull you over the fence and escort you to the back of the crowd. It works.
3. Deal. You’re at a hardcore show.
If you are not interested in moshing, you should go see a ‘soft’ show. Get tickets for GlamourSugarTeenPop next time. Your first mistake was coming to see Facebreak, with special guest I Will Kill Your Dog With Metal.
If you are interested in moshing, enjoy. If the lead singer tells you he wants to see a circle pit in the middle, and you are not already in the middle, you will have to push your way in. The people in front of you not participating are sacrifices. Destroy them.
People. YOU ARE AT A HARDCORE SHOW. If you get forced into the pit, either deal, or make your way to one of the ends, and push out.
Screaming is ok. If you can hear yourself over the music, you shouldn’t be screaming.
If they want you to wave your lighter, do it. If you don’t have one, DON’T use your phone. It’s not really that cool at all.
Crowd surfing is expected. But when the security guards rip you out of the air before you can touch the guitarist, deal. Go to the back, push forward and try again. You’re a rebel. They can’t stop you.
If you get kicked in the head by a crowd surfer, deal.
If you have a crowd surfer dropped on you, you should have been lifting harder. It’s not gay to lift from the ass, as long as you let go.
Fatties can crowd surf at hardcore shows, but in moderation. There must be at least 3non-fat guys, and 4 attractive girls before a fattie can surf. This count restarts every time chubs get up on the crowd.
If the crowd starts pushing, and people get knocked down, do not help them up. They deserve no mercy. Do everything you can to crush them.
People. Don’t get knocked down. It’s a sign of weakness.
If the band members throw stuff to the crowd, dive bombing is acceptable to obtain said item.
If someone has a grip on said item, don’t claw at their hands to get it.
If it is something like a jacket, or item that can have multiple people holding it, pulling, shoving, and kicking are all allowed to get it fully in your control. If you are the last person holding something, it is yours. Drumsticks don’t count. If you snag one, it is yours, even though other people could have room to grab it.
If you text one more time, I will break your phone in half. Seriously. Is the show not interesting? Then leave! If you really need to text in-between set changes, go do it somewhere else. Like, not the show somewhere else.
General Rules:
Sound Techs. You guys do good things. But imagine yourself in the crowds place. Just because it sounds good on stage, or through a mixer doesn’t mean it’ll sound good in the audience.
Stage Techs: Bands couldn’t function without you. You are key. Just ignore the audience. If they tell you that you’re taking too long, who cares? They’ll appreciate it later, when the sick set up you did makes for a good show.
Musicians: Look alive! It’s called showmanship, remember? Not dullmanship. Also, your techs have very important jobs. You can move around them as well. All they’re trying to do is adjust your mike stand so you can use it. Don’t throw a hissy fit cause they’re in your way.
Audience: Just because you didn’t get anything doesn’t mean you can’t. Just ask. The vocalist of Brave New World gave two kids his drummers drumsticks because they asked. I got the rhythm guitarists pick from We the Kings because I asked a stage tech after the show.
Any questions?
Thursday, February 19, 2009
Meghan: Good morning beautiful
“Good morning beautiful,”
Fingers slid around her hips and he laid a kiss on her bare shoulder, “How did you sleep?”
“Mmmmm…” she hummed, tilting her head as he worked his way up her neck, “Perfect.”
“I like the sound of that.”
‘Really?” she asked laughing. She rolled on top of him and kissed his stomach, “You,”
Kissed his chest, “are”,
Hovered above his mouth, “perfect.”
He pulled her down for a kiss.
I hate you.
She curled in his arms and the sheets while he stroked her face.
“How about some food?” He asked, kissing her forehead lightly, “They have great room service up here.”
“Sure. Besides, I have to leave soon to get to work by eight.”
He laughed, “All work and no play?”
She smiled at him and cocked an eyebrow, “There is some play. Besides, you have a board meeting in a few hours too, so it doesn’t matter.”
He groaned and flopped back onto the bed where she prodded him, “Room service please.”
“Is there no rest for the wicked?”
“Nope, sorry.”
With a groan he sat up and hooked the phone out of the receiver. She climbed out of bed and walked around the room, pulling a shirt over her head. Scooping her bag off of the floor, she went to one of the room’s mirrors to apply makeup. She could feel his eyes on her as she slid on bright red lipstick.
She turned back to him and smiled, “You like?”
He came to her and traced the cherry redness with one fingertip, “Oh, I like.”
He kissed her then, at first carefully, then hungrily and the red on her mouth painted his own lips.
They laughed at each other after, both looking either like murder victims or kids who had gone overboard with cherry popsicles.
After cleaning up she said ruefully, “I think I’ll leave the lipstick off.”
“Good idea.” He said, “I feel a little light headed from consuming all of that.”
“The stuff is meant to be worn, not eaten,” she laughed.
He chuckled too and reached for her, then frowned when she suddenly seemed too far away.
“What’s wrong?” she asked, grasping his hand.
“I don’t know; I feel…” He laughed hesitantly, “a little dizzy?”
“Here, come sit down.”
He couldn’t see, the room was swirling, the only thing anchoring him was her hands on his, pulling him forward. But they were pulling too hard and he was falling. His side smashed into a chair and he cursed.
“Oh, did that hurt Darling? I’m sorry.” A voice behind him said. The voice stilled him because it was hers, and yet it wasn’t. Something had changed. He whispered her name, swiveling his head in what he thought was her direction.
“Blind as a bat, aren’t you?” The voice asked coldly, “The paralysis will increase. What you’re feeling now is your nervous system being shot all to hell.”
He collapsed onto his stomach, eyes rolling, “Wha-you-“
“The lipstick you just sucked off of my face? Trace amounts of poison, not a lethal dose mind you, just enough to do this to you. Don’t worry about me; I’ve been conditioning myself to it for years.”
She rolled him over onto his back and watched as his eyes darted madly, looking for her. Leaving him there she went to fetch her purse from beside the mirror. She pulled something out and let the rest spill carelessly across the floor. Then she climbed on top of the paralyzed man and tapped the gun she held in her hand on his forehead.
“Can you see this?” She asked as he began to shake, “Do you know what it is?”
“Why?” He asked her, staring not at the gun but into her eyes, “Why aa-are yy--“
She sat up and set the gun gently on the floor beside them; he didn’t even glance at it, just stared at her above him.
“Once upon a time, three years ago, a hotshot lawyer was driving past a park in his shiny new car.” She grabbed the sleeve of her shirt and ripped it, exposing her arm. “On his way to a no doubt important meeting he took a short cut through suburbia, past all the little playing children.” She gripped his hand in hers and dragged his fingernails down her arm, leaving bloody tracks, “One of the children said, ‘Mommy can we get some ice cream?’ And of course they did because how could she refuse when it made him so happy?”
The man on the floor in front of her stared up at her white face, tears streaming from his eyes to seep into the carpet, “NOW YOU CRY!?” She screamed at him, “You cry for me now when before you just ran after you HIT MY BABY!?” Another rip in her shirt, this time up the side, and more bloody furrows.
Then she picked up the gun gently, almost religiously and set it against his forehead, “I’ll have to blow your mouth out,” she said calmly, “to get rid any trace of the poison. You’re stomach too, just in case you digested any.”
She gripped the collar of his shirt in her hand and rolled him on top of her, pointing the gun at his mouth.
His tears rained down onto her face and she snarled, “Don’t cry for me, don’t you dare cry for me.”
His lips moved against the gun, “I love y—“
She blew his head off.
-Meghan
Fingers slid around her hips and he laid a kiss on her bare shoulder, “How did you sleep?”
“Mmmmm…” she hummed, tilting her head as he worked his way up her neck, “Perfect.”
“I like the sound of that.”
‘Really?” she asked laughing. She rolled on top of him and kissed his stomach, “You,”
Kissed his chest, “are”,
Hovered above his mouth, “perfect.”
He pulled her down for a kiss.
I hate you.
She curled in his arms and the sheets while he stroked her face.
“How about some food?” He asked, kissing her forehead lightly, “They have great room service up here.”
“Sure. Besides, I have to leave soon to get to work by eight.”
He laughed, “All work and no play?”
She smiled at him and cocked an eyebrow, “There is some play. Besides, you have a board meeting in a few hours too, so it doesn’t matter.”
He groaned and flopped back onto the bed where she prodded him, “Room service please.”
“Is there no rest for the wicked?”
“Nope, sorry.”
With a groan he sat up and hooked the phone out of the receiver. She climbed out of bed and walked around the room, pulling a shirt over her head. Scooping her bag off of the floor, she went to one of the room’s mirrors to apply makeup. She could feel his eyes on her as she slid on bright red lipstick.
She turned back to him and smiled, “You like?”
He came to her and traced the cherry redness with one fingertip, “Oh, I like.”
He kissed her then, at first carefully, then hungrily and the red on her mouth painted his own lips.
They laughed at each other after, both looking either like murder victims or kids who had gone overboard with cherry popsicles.
After cleaning up she said ruefully, “I think I’ll leave the lipstick off.”
“Good idea.” He said, “I feel a little light headed from consuming all of that.”
“The stuff is meant to be worn, not eaten,” she laughed.
He chuckled too and reached for her, then frowned when she suddenly seemed too far away.
“What’s wrong?” she asked, grasping his hand.
“I don’t know; I feel…” He laughed hesitantly, “a little dizzy?”
“Here, come sit down.”
He couldn’t see, the room was swirling, the only thing anchoring him was her hands on his, pulling him forward. But they were pulling too hard and he was falling. His side smashed into a chair and he cursed.
“Oh, did that hurt Darling? I’m sorry.” A voice behind him said. The voice stilled him because it was hers, and yet it wasn’t. Something had changed. He whispered her name, swiveling his head in what he thought was her direction.
“Blind as a bat, aren’t you?” The voice asked coldly, “The paralysis will increase. What you’re feeling now is your nervous system being shot all to hell.”
He collapsed onto his stomach, eyes rolling, “Wha-you-“
“The lipstick you just sucked off of my face? Trace amounts of poison, not a lethal dose mind you, just enough to do this to you. Don’t worry about me; I’ve been conditioning myself to it for years.”
She rolled him over onto his back and watched as his eyes darted madly, looking for her. Leaving him there she went to fetch her purse from beside the mirror. She pulled something out and let the rest spill carelessly across the floor. Then she climbed on top of the paralyzed man and tapped the gun she held in her hand on his forehead.
“Can you see this?” She asked as he began to shake, “Do you know what it is?”
“Why?” He asked her, staring not at the gun but into her eyes, “Why aa-are yy--“
She sat up and set the gun gently on the floor beside them; he didn’t even glance at it, just stared at her above him.
“Once upon a time, three years ago, a hotshot lawyer was driving past a park in his shiny new car.” She grabbed the sleeve of her shirt and ripped it, exposing her arm. “On his way to a no doubt important meeting he took a short cut through suburbia, past all the little playing children.” She gripped his hand in hers and dragged his fingernails down her arm, leaving bloody tracks, “One of the children said, ‘Mommy can we get some ice cream?’ And of course they did because how could she refuse when it made him so happy?”
The man on the floor in front of her stared up at her white face, tears streaming from his eyes to seep into the carpet, “NOW YOU CRY!?” She screamed at him, “You cry for me now when before you just ran after you HIT MY BABY!?” Another rip in her shirt, this time up the side, and more bloody furrows.
Then she picked up the gun gently, almost religiously and set it against his forehead, “I’ll have to blow your mouth out,” she said calmly, “to get rid any trace of the poison. You’re stomach too, just in case you digested any.”
She gripped the collar of his shirt in her hand and rolled him on top of her, pointing the gun at his mouth.
His tears rained down onto her face and she snarled, “Don’t cry for me, don’t you dare cry for me.”
His lips moved against the gun, “I love y—“
She blew his head off.
-Meghan
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
Jasmine: Ascension
“On belay?
Belay on!
Climbing?
Climb on!”
My fingertips grasp at the first of the rocks.
Feet shift into position, ready to begin an unrehearsed dance.
I feel it in my spine as the climb begins.
Toes clinging to the rock through worn shoes,
conforming to the rough shapes nature has wrought.
Knees and elbows turn and twist to allow for impossible reaches.
Clip in ten feet up.
Safety in numbers, one is good but two is better.
My legs slow as the angle increases.
Arms burning from the strength of the stone,
fingers scrape over the glass-like granules,
knees already bruised and bleeding from before
instinctively avoid being thrown into the wall.
Pain is knowledge.
The angle is great now,
feet are for balance.
My life dangles from my own battered fingertips.
The clip is only feet away.
A long reach or a short leap.
I leap.
I clip.
I fall.
I’m saved.
Equipment is your friend,
it helps you conquer the climb,
your enemy.
The rock is neutral.
It doesn’t care if you fall.
Or if you don’t.
Pulling myself further and further,
the edge is imminent, closer and closer.
Yards, then feet, only inches away.
A scream of triumph from beneath me as I crawl over the precipice.
I’m too tired to speak,
too exhausted to reply,
too satisfied to move.
Belay on!
Climbing?
Climb on!”
My fingertips grasp at the first of the rocks.
Feet shift into position, ready to begin an unrehearsed dance.
I feel it in my spine as the climb begins.
Toes clinging to the rock through worn shoes,
conforming to the rough shapes nature has wrought.
Knees and elbows turn and twist to allow for impossible reaches.
Clip in ten feet up.
Safety in numbers, one is good but two is better.
My legs slow as the angle increases.
Arms burning from the strength of the stone,
fingers scrape over the glass-like granules,
knees already bruised and bleeding from before
instinctively avoid being thrown into the wall.
Pain is knowledge.
The angle is great now,
feet are for balance.
My life dangles from my own battered fingertips.
The clip is only feet away.
A long reach or a short leap.
I leap.
I clip.
I fall.
I’m saved.
Equipment is your friend,
it helps you conquer the climb,
your enemy.
The rock is neutral.
It doesn’t care if you fall.
Or if you don’t.
Pulling myself further and further,
the edge is imminent, closer and closer.
Yards, then feet, only inches away.
A scream of triumph from beneath me as I crawl over the precipice.
I’m too tired to speak,
too exhausted to reply,
too satisfied to move.
That guy: Um.........
So, funny situation.
I went to bed the other morning. I didn't get in till like 3 or 4. Something ridiculous.
I had things to do the next morning. I turned on my music, and crashed.
Several hours later.
I wake up totally disoriented. My dreams were psychotic. I could tell by how tired I was that I had been flailing all night. I think I fought a war, and then George Forman, and then danced for like 18 hours.
My cell phone starts ringing.
I go to grab it, and realize I can't move my arms. They are so asleep, i've got pins and needles in them. I flop around, trying to sit up without using my arms. I use my head to push me up, and realize that somehow, my sheet has gotten wrapped around my ankle so tightly it's cutting cirulation off. Not only that, but my heavy blankets (like, really heavy) are somehow twisted up in the sheet, and hanging off my mattress.
Let's recap.
My arms are asleep. In pain asleep.
My leg is esentially tied down, with no cirulation.
I am flopping around like a fish.
Flight of the Valkyries is blaring.
And then my alarm starts going off.
It's set to start off almost unhearable, and get so loud that I can hear it from the shower.
Through sheer power of will, I levitate over to the clock, and shut it off with my mind. I then answer the phone call and go back to bed.
Lies.
I fall off my bed, landing on my computer, my Creek, lots of paper work, a bottle of Brasso, a portable hard drive, and oh yeah, the wall.
I somehow managed to fall off my bed, which is literally a mattress on the floor, and hit the wall.
I don't remember much else about the situation. I probably opened the phone with my teeth.
And turned the alarm off with bullets.
Just thought I should let you guys know.
I went to bed the other morning. I didn't get in till like 3 or 4. Something ridiculous.
I had things to do the next morning. I turned on my music, and crashed.
Several hours later.
I wake up totally disoriented. My dreams were psychotic. I could tell by how tired I was that I had been flailing all night. I think I fought a war, and then George Forman, and then danced for like 18 hours.
My cell phone starts ringing.
I go to grab it, and realize I can't move my arms. They are so asleep, i've got pins and needles in them. I flop around, trying to sit up without using my arms. I use my head to push me up, and realize that somehow, my sheet has gotten wrapped around my ankle so tightly it's cutting cirulation off. Not only that, but my heavy blankets (like, really heavy) are somehow twisted up in the sheet, and hanging off my mattress.
Let's recap.
My arms are asleep. In pain asleep.
My leg is esentially tied down, with no cirulation.
I am flopping around like a fish.
Flight of the Valkyries is blaring.
And then my alarm starts going off.
It's set to start off almost unhearable, and get so loud that I can hear it from the shower.
Through sheer power of will, I levitate over to the clock, and shut it off with my mind. I then answer the phone call and go back to bed.
Lies.
I fall off my bed, landing on my computer, my Creek, lots of paper work, a bottle of Brasso, a portable hard drive, and oh yeah, the wall.
I somehow managed to fall off my bed, which is literally a mattress on the floor, and hit the wall.
I don't remember much else about the situation. I probably opened the phone with my teeth.
And turned the alarm off with bullets.
Just thought I should let you guys know.
Friday, February 13, 2009
Jasmine: Cockroaches
"Will you feed the outside cats?" Damn him. It's not that I'm doing myspace, though it's that too. It's the cockroaches, invisible cretins in the night.
And it's him. He knows that I can't turn him down once he's asked. He knows I want to, but I won't for fear of appearing as callous as I truly feel. I won't blow my cover as slim as it is, I can't. And so I prepare to venture forth.
Double damn, he must plan this I swear. The cat's food pail is empty. So now, not only do I have to play with the evil many legged fiends, my hands will now smell like cat food until the day I die. I'll have to plot my revenge later, now I have to stop complaining about it and just do it.
The outside light is on. In fact both outside lights are on. I couldn't possibly get anymore light out there unless I brought a flashlight. Please don't joke because I'm sorely tempted. But instead I brave the semi-dark with the bucket at my side.
Down the first stretch of side walk, there are no roaches yet. I turn on my weapon and snatch it up from the grass, eyes flicking back and forth among the blades, searching for movement. That's how you find them. In the dark you can't see their chocolate hides, but sometimes you can catch the ground moving and you know they're there.
I inch closer and turn the nozzle onto shower, it gives the best spray. All around the food dishes I check for them. Four… five… six! Oh shit. I quickly switch to jet and start punishing the interlopers. Zing! Bash! They flee for cover. Unfortunately cover is the grass where I am… yikes! I move to the gravel ignoring the ones on the wall. If they're on the wall they can't hurt me, or so I tell myself. Besides if I shoot them off the wall then they'll be on the ground and at least I can see them on the wall.
I pour in the food spilling more into the useless tray of water than I get in the dish. But I don't care. Fill up their water dish and I'm done. I can dash back to safety. I don't look until I've closed and locked the door behind me when I turn just in time to see two cats racing for the food.
It is in that moment that I'm rewarded. Though I'm still pissed. It didn't have to be me out there in the dark with the roaches. It could have been someone else, someone who wasn't afraid. Damn him for sending me to potential doom. Damn her for daring to scold me, tell me that I should have cleaned the tray. Damn those roaches, damn them all except for the kitties, I like the kitties. So fluffy, so cute.
“Both the cockroach and the bird would get along very well without us, although the cockroach would miss us most.”
-Joseph Wood Krutch quotes
And it's him. He knows that I can't turn him down once he's asked. He knows I want to, but I won't for fear of appearing as callous as I truly feel. I won't blow my cover as slim as it is, I can't. And so I prepare to venture forth.
Double damn, he must plan this I swear. The cat's food pail is empty. So now, not only do I have to play with the evil many legged fiends, my hands will now smell like cat food until the day I die. I'll have to plot my revenge later, now I have to stop complaining about it and just do it.
The outside light is on. In fact both outside lights are on. I couldn't possibly get anymore light out there unless I brought a flashlight. Please don't joke because I'm sorely tempted. But instead I brave the semi-dark with the bucket at my side.
Down the first stretch of side walk, there are no roaches yet. I turn on my weapon and snatch it up from the grass, eyes flicking back and forth among the blades, searching for movement. That's how you find them. In the dark you can't see their chocolate hides, but sometimes you can catch the ground moving and you know they're there.
I inch closer and turn the nozzle onto shower, it gives the best spray. All around the food dishes I check for them. Four… five… six! Oh shit. I quickly switch to jet and start punishing the interlopers. Zing! Bash! They flee for cover. Unfortunately cover is the grass where I am… yikes! I move to the gravel ignoring the ones on the wall. If they're on the wall they can't hurt me, or so I tell myself. Besides if I shoot them off the wall then they'll be on the ground and at least I can see them on the wall.
I pour in the food spilling more into the useless tray of water than I get in the dish. But I don't care. Fill up their water dish and I'm done. I can dash back to safety. I don't look until I've closed and locked the door behind me when I turn just in time to see two cats racing for the food.
It is in that moment that I'm rewarded. Though I'm still pissed. It didn't have to be me out there in the dark with the roaches. It could have been someone else, someone who wasn't afraid. Damn him for sending me to potential doom. Damn her for daring to scold me, tell me that I should have cleaned the tray. Damn those roaches, damn them all except for the kitties, I like the kitties. So fluffy, so cute.
“Both the cockroach and the bird would get along very well without us, although the cockroach would miss us most.”
-Joseph Wood Krutch quotes
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
Meghan: Ants
People are strange. College students in particular are the strangest, probably because so much has been dumped on them at once and it’s all they can do to keep their heads from exploding. Of course there are those who don’t make it and you can see the residual brain goo on the sidewalk or asking for your spare change. If only there was some way of making everything 100% efficient, then nothing would be wasted; money, resources, even people. Maybe brain scans for children? We could be like ants; this one will be an executive, this one will be a painter, etc. Well, slightly more complicated then ants. Then there would be a place set down for us, a steady income, and we know we wouldn’t have “wasted” any money on our children because they’re guaranteed to do something with their lives. If a parent knows what will happen to their child from the beginning, won’t they be better parents? After all, whatever they’re nurturing is a key to society, destined to play an important part. There would be none of that pesky risk that modern parents take, what with encouraging their children to do whatever they want to do. How can the children know what they want to do? 44% of college students switch their majors in their first two years. If they’re that indecisive at such a late age, shouldn’t there be rules laid out to help them make a steady path? What is the world coming to if it can’t even control its own children? With so much choice in the world comes chance and the greater the chance, the greater the risk. I propose a solution that would make the world a more peaceful and efficient place. By monitoring the young from a young age it can be determined whether they will contribute to their society. By age five, if they have been determined useful, they would be sent to the proper training facilities or families, depending on the appropriateness of the situation. If the child wasn’t deemed useful, then he or she would undergo a lobotomy and be trained for simple factory work. In this way the world can progress at a faster pace towards evolutionary superiority and cultural supremacy. It is the most obvious path towards a peaceful and happier planet.
sincerely yours,
Meghan
sincerely yours,
Meghan
Doug: Apolgize.
Dear Karma,
I take back every bad thing I've ever said about my roomie. He is THE MAN!!
-Doug
I take back every bad thing I've ever said about my roomie. He is THE MAN!!
-Doug
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
Tht guy: In which a simple question leads to the best movie ever
Enjoy
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Doug Wood
Add people to this chat
CancelInvite Doug: how do you break it to your roomie that he's going to be sexiled for like, a week
Sent at 6:36 PM on Tuesday
me: what does sexiled mean
Doug: exiled away from the dorm room, so i can fuck meghan all over the place
sexiled
me: just tell him that right there
hey
Doug: for an entire week?
me: one of my girlfriends is coming into town
you need to dissapear
Doug: i don't like him, but he lives here too
me: either you can do it
or i can MAKE you do it
Doug: haha
me: menacing stare
Doug: you can either do it, or i'll sic my sex starved angry girlfriend on you
she'll fucking cut you.
me: we will take turns drinking from a chalice filled with whatever blood remains in your body after we FUCKING KILL YOU
menacing stare
menacing hand stretching
Doug: menacing k-bar extracting
me: menacing k-bar extracting from small child
Sent at 6:41 PM on Tuesday
Doug: it's not quite dead yet, arms are still feebly resisting as i drive the k bar into it's skull.
toss the body to meghan, who begins to feast needily
me: yet, somehow, it still makes adorable baby sounds
Doug: somehow
me: barely hearable over the sounds of pelvis breaking and thigh chewing
Meghan
"Lemme see your wrist real quick"
she grabs your roomates wrist
takes a chunk out with her teeth
begins shaking his blood all over the baby
and eating more furiously
Doug: haha
me: Doug
Doug: looks up at me and goes: 'You know what would make this better? virgin blood"
me: "I told you, you could have left"
"But it's too late now"
lights flicker sinisterly
door slams closed
gust of wind whips through the room
camera pans out
black screen
exit room
4 hours later
enter room
blood EVERYWHERE
Doug: the entire scene looks like something out of doom 3
me: meghan and doug in post coital glow
Doug: on a bed of torn flesh
me: weaing roomies skull as hat
meghan is using baby femur to pick her teeth
Doug: i'm licking the bone marrow from roomie's humorous off meghan's chest
little bloody handprints all over the wall
yes. i think this is how it should go down
me: as scene fades to black
Doug
"I'm glad he stayed"
roll credits
Doug: we make the best movies ever.
me: this needs to go on the blog
Doug: yes it does.
me: i'll post it
Doug: okay
me: hang on
Don't you wish you could write like us?
-That guy
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Doug Wood
Add people to this chat
CancelInvite Doug: how do you break it to your roomie that he's going to be sexiled for like, a week
Sent at 6:36 PM on Tuesday
me: what does sexiled mean
Doug: exiled away from the dorm room, so i can fuck meghan all over the place
sexiled
me: just tell him that right there
hey
Doug: for an entire week?
me: one of my girlfriends is coming into town
you need to dissapear
Doug: i don't like him, but he lives here too
me: either you can do it
or i can MAKE you do it
Doug: haha
me: menacing stare
Doug: you can either do it, or i'll sic my sex starved angry girlfriend on you
she'll fucking cut you.
me: we will take turns drinking from a chalice filled with whatever blood remains in your body after we FUCKING KILL YOU
menacing stare
menacing hand stretching
Doug: menacing k-bar extracting
me: menacing k-bar extracting from small child
Sent at 6:41 PM on Tuesday
Doug: it's not quite dead yet, arms are still feebly resisting as i drive the k bar into it's skull.
toss the body to meghan, who begins to feast needily
me: yet, somehow, it still makes adorable baby sounds
Doug: somehow
me: barely hearable over the sounds of pelvis breaking and thigh chewing
Meghan
"Lemme see your wrist real quick"
she grabs your roomates wrist
takes a chunk out with her teeth
begins shaking his blood all over the baby
and eating more furiously
Doug: haha
me: Doug
Doug: looks up at me and goes: 'You know what would make this better? virgin blood"
me: "I told you, you could have left"
"But it's too late now"
lights flicker sinisterly
door slams closed
gust of wind whips through the room
camera pans out
black screen
exit room
4 hours later
enter room
blood EVERYWHERE
Doug: the entire scene looks like something out of doom 3
me: meghan and doug in post coital glow
Doug: on a bed of torn flesh
me: weaing roomies skull as hat
meghan is using baby femur to pick her teeth
Doug: i'm licking the bone marrow from roomie's humorous off meghan's chest
little bloody handprints all over the wall
yes. i think this is how it should go down
me: as scene fades to black
Doug
"I'm glad he stayed"
roll credits
Doug: we make the best movies ever.
me: this needs to go on the blog
Doug: yes it does.
me: i'll post it
Doug: okay
me: hang on
Don't you wish you could write like us?
-That guy
Monday, February 9, 2009
Jasmine: Get a life
I made a goal this semester. This semester I was going to “get a life.” But what does that mean, “get a life?”
life (līf)
n. pl. lives (līvz)
1 a : the quality that distinguishes a vital and functional plant or animal from a dead body b : a state of living characterized by capacity for metabolism, growth, reaction to stimuli, and reproduction
2 a : the sequence of physical and mental experiences that make up the existence of an individual b : a specific part or aspect of the process of living
I had and have a life. I inhale exhale, I eat and my cells break down glucose molecules for energy to go about their business of repairing and reproducing themselves. Physically I’m in fairly good shape, eighteen years old, I’ll probably never be as healthy and toxin free as I am now. I go about my daily tasks, class, homework, eat, sleep, repeat. Is there anything wrong with that? Is that not living? Is that not having a life?
That was first semester. And it worked for me. I would have kept on as I was except for that niggling little feeling that it could be better. That I was used to better, that I had had better at some point in my past and could have it again. That maybe all hope didn’t fly more than a thousand miles away in two completely different directions leaving me peering at the horizon wondering when they might return. So I planned.
Step one: make a friend
Over and over again I have done this, rebuilt who I was, or more who I had every few years or so. In elementary school I was in a very small class. One year there were only eight of us. What that meant to me is that I had maybe two good friends, if that. And when i switched to the Academy these friendships disappeared. It took two years and the arrival of a nifty strange girl to make friends again. This time I had three in a class of a hundred and fifty. Once again I left, started all over again. La Cueva freshman year I had no friends. None. No one to talk to for more than ten minutes at lunch. It was one of the most miserable years of my social life. Sophomore year I made a friend and then promptly lost her that summer because I “changed.” Yes there was a boy involved, but people change, it’s a fact, and I guess we didn’t change at the same rate. Junior year I had a different friend and then I acquired a second friend near the end of the year. Which was good because the first of these left into a frightening big haired abyss. Senior year was a relationship experiment. I interacted with a group that hovered around thirty people in number on a weekly basis or sometimes more often. But by the end of it I still had relatively few friends, and a large share of them left at the end of the summer.
The moral of that very long paragraph is that I don’t make very many true friends, and the ones that I do make, leave quickly.
It takes a lot for me to consider someone my friend. Too much really. So while I don’t think I’ll be able to make a new friend here for many years, I may be able to make an acquaintance or two. My original goals were to further befriend Sarah’s roommate Kirby, my old lab partner Neesha, and my roommates friend Dan. On the Kirby front I seem to be progressing well. She seems less and less weirded out by me and almost completely unafraid of me molesting her in a dark alley. Whether or not she’s an idiot for not being afraid waits to be seen. I have high hopes for her. My lab partner has disappeared from the face of the earth, and I believe that when she went home over break she was smashed by a passing semi or something. And my roommates friend seems less interesting this semester than he did last semester. So… yeah, Kirby, yep.
Step Two: Get an activity… or two
In high school I had a few activities to keep me… active. All of them school related. Books, science, I’m a nerd, you know this. But I came to college and I had nothing to make me leave my “cave” (Meghan coined the term, I find it agreeable. The lofted bed makes it feel very cave-like.) I would go to class and come back to the cave drawn by a very visible tie to my laptop and the people it has access to. Every once in a while Sarah would bribe me to lapo and I would see other examples of humanity.
This semester I have weekly things, sort of responsibilities that make me actually want to leave my room. First came laptag. Laptag is something worth abandoning the world for a day. Laptag and its trimmings, Jarrod’s house, food, a bunch of people I know and at least somewhat like half the time all jumbled together. Definitely worth it. Next was supposed to come a math study group but that still hasn’t managed to meet. But we will! Yes… we will! Instead next happened to be Karate club. Meghan joined a tae kuan do club where she is, and I know I was falling behind in the physical department so… I stepped it up. Kirby and I also work out a few times a week, I count that too. Muahahahaha!
Step Three: Stop being lonely?
Nah, not going to happen. I miss you guys too much. I’m lonely. I deal. We all live our lives as best we can with what we have to work with.
Anyways I wrote this blog because Meghan pointed out to me sometime last week that I’d gotten a life. That I wasn’t always available to her and Doug to talk to or type to, and that’s one of the downsides of it, but the upside is that I will eventually be able to do the splits! And kick like a friggin machine!
“There are two means of refuge from the miseries of life: music and cats.” – Albert Schweitzer
Muahahaha cats
“I want a kitty” – Jasmine Brasel age negative three months
life (līf)
n. pl. lives (līvz)
1 a : the quality that distinguishes a vital and functional plant or animal from a dead body b : a state of living characterized by capacity for metabolism, growth, reaction to stimuli, and reproduction
2 a : the sequence of physical and mental experiences that make up the existence of an individual b : a specific part or aspect of the process of living
I had and have a life. I inhale exhale, I eat and my cells break down glucose molecules for energy to go about their business of repairing and reproducing themselves. Physically I’m in fairly good shape, eighteen years old, I’ll probably never be as healthy and toxin free as I am now. I go about my daily tasks, class, homework, eat, sleep, repeat. Is there anything wrong with that? Is that not living? Is that not having a life?
That was first semester. And it worked for me. I would have kept on as I was except for that niggling little feeling that it could be better. That I was used to better, that I had had better at some point in my past and could have it again. That maybe all hope didn’t fly more than a thousand miles away in two completely different directions leaving me peering at the horizon wondering when they might return. So I planned.
Step one: make a friend
Over and over again I have done this, rebuilt who I was, or more who I had every few years or so. In elementary school I was in a very small class. One year there were only eight of us. What that meant to me is that I had maybe two good friends, if that. And when i switched to the Academy these friendships disappeared. It took two years and the arrival of a nifty strange girl to make friends again. This time I had three in a class of a hundred and fifty. Once again I left, started all over again. La Cueva freshman year I had no friends. None. No one to talk to for more than ten minutes at lunch. It was one of the most miserable years of my social life. Sophomore year I made a friend and then promptly lost her that summer because I “changed.” Yes there was a boy involved, but people change, it’s a fact, and I guess we didn’t change at the same rate. Junior year I had a different friend and then I acquired a second friend near the end of the year. Which was good because the first of these left into a frightening big haired abyss. Senior year was a relationship experiment. I interacted with a group that hovered around thirty people in number on a weekly basis or sometimes more often. But by the end of it I still had relatively few friends, and a large share of them left at the end of the summer.
The moral of that very long paragraph is that I don’t make very many true friends, and the ones that I do make, leave quickly.
It takes a lot for me to consider someone my friend. Too much really. So while I don’t think I’ll be able to make a new friend here for many years, I may be able to make an acquaintance or two. My original goals were to further befriend Sarah’s roommate Kirby, my old lab partner Neesha, and my roommates friend Dan. On the Kirby front I seem to be progressing well. She seems less and less weirded out by me and almost completely unafraid of me molesting her in a dark alley. Whether or not she’s an idiot for not being afraid waits to be seen. I have high hopes for her. My lab partner has disappeared from the face of the earth, and I believe that when she went home over break she was smashed by a passing semi or something. And my roommates friend seems less interesting this semester than he did last semester. So… yeah, Kirby, yep.
Step Two: Get an activity… or two
In high school I had a few activities to keep me… active. All of them school related. Books, science, I’m a nerd, you know this. But I came to college and I had nothing to make me leave my “cave” (Meghan coined the term, I find it agreeable. The lofted bed makes it feel very cave-like.) I would go to class and come back to the cave drawn by a very visible tie to my laptop and the people it has access to. Every once in a while Sarah would bribe me to lapo and I would see other examples of humanity.
This semester I have weekly things, sort of responsibilities that make me actually want to leave my room. First came laptag. Laptag is something worth abandoning the world for a day. Laptag and its trimmings, Jarrod’s house, food, a bunch of people I know and at least somewhat like half the time all jumbled together. Definitely worth it. Next was supposed to come a math study group but that still hasn’t managed to meet. But we will! Yes… we will! Instead next happened to be Karate club. Meghan joined a tae kuan do club where she is, and I know I was falling behind in the physical department so… I stepped it up. Kirby and I also work out a few times a week, I count that too. Muahahahaha!
Step Three: Stop being lonely?
Nah, not going to happen. I miss you guys too much. I’m lonely. I deal. We all live our lives as best we can with what we have to work with.
Anyways I wrote this blog because Meghan pointed out to me sometime last week that I’d gotten a life. That I wasn’t always available to her and Doug to talk to or type to, and that’s one of the downsides of it, but the upside is that I will eventually be able to do the splits! And kick like a friggin machine!
“There are two means of refuge from the miseries of life: music and cats.” – Albert Schweitzer
Muahahaha cats
“I want a kitty” – Jasmine Brasel age negative three months
Sunday, February 8, 2009
Jasmine: Rose
She is going
She is slipping
She is falling
Fallen
Gone
People crying
No one trying
She is dying
Almost
Dead
Look for something
There is nothing
Empty yearning
No one
Not
Endless hoping
Uncle joking
Uncle serving
Hopeless
Cause
I’m not there
You’re not here
She’s nowhere
It’s the
End
She is slipping
She is falling
Fallen
Gone
People crying
No one trying
She is dying
Almost
Dead
Look for something
There is nothing
Empty yearning
No one
Not
Endless hoping
Uncle joking
Uncle serving
Hopeless
Cause
I’m not there
You’re not here
She’s nowhere
It’s the
End
Saturday, February 7, 2009
Doug: The Fuck Kids?
Aight kids. What the fuck?
Not that i'm counting or anything but January, which has 31 days, somehow managed to go by with 16 total blogs. now we're seven days in Febuary with an outstanding record of two.
Don't post crap. But for god sakes post something. The last ones have been just myself and Meghan. Not that we're not good, but variety is the spice of life.
It's late. My terdlicking suite mates are all up playing super smash bro's brawl. I'd be playing too, but the wii controller reminds me of a sex toy, and I'm just uncomfortable with it. But they're keeping me up. Scum.
They're all geeks too. Not like me, I consider myself the good kind of geek, the one that can keep up with Marines and still manage to understand the pinciples of partacle physics, and discuss the advantages of Mortal Combat over Street Fighter. I think the middle ground is good.
Ugh. This is crap. Someone post something worthwhile. We're dying here.
-Doug
"Rewarding mediocraty is the halmark of a dying civilization."
-Me.
Not that i'm counting or anything but January, which has 31 days, somehow managed to go by with 16 total blogs. now we're seven days in Febuary with an outstanding record of two.
Don't post crap. But for god sakes post something. The last ones have been just myself and Meghan. Not that we're not good, but variety is the spice of life.
It's late. My terdlicking suite mates are all up playing super smash bro's brawl. I'd be playing too, but the wii controller reminds me of a sex toy, and I'm just uncomfortable with it. But they're keeping me up. Scum.
They're all geeks too. Not like me, I consider myself the good kind of geek, the one that can keep up with Marines and still manage to understand the pinciples of partacle physics, and discuss the advantages of Mortal Combat over Street Fighter. I think the middle ground is good.
Ugh. This is crap. Someone post something worthwhile. We're dying here.
-Doug
"Rewarding mediocraty is the halmark of a dying civilization."
-Me.
Thursday, February 5, 2009
Sunday, February 1, 2009
Meghan: Fading
College students streamed around me, their voices dimmed like I was hearing them through cotton-stuffed ears. My shoes padded eerily in the not-so-quiet as I walked down the hallways of the gym. I didn’t know where I was, not really, but I knew I was looking for someone. Faces went by me, rooms and equipment, people stretching, laughing, lifting weights, running, but none of them were familiar. I came to a door with a window set into it and looked into it; ah, there she was. I slapped my hand on the glass to get her attention and smiled. She looked up and straight into my eyes, but her expression remained the same, calm and slightly phased out. I pursed my lips in confusion, I wasn’t supposed to be back yet, why didn’t she react? She pushed open the door and walked past me. I called her name hesitantly; nothing. I shouted it, and when no one in the gym even blinked I knew something was wrong. Why couldn’t they see me, hear me? Was I dead? Why? How? It didn’t matter, I had to get her to hear me. I tried to grip her arms but my hands just slipped off. She sat down to stretch and I slid my arms around her neck, screaming, crying. She hesitated for a moment, staring out into space with a puzzled look on her face. I held my breath and touched her cheek. Can you see? But no, she shook her head and went back to her exercise and I was fading away.
“Dreams that do come true can be as unsettling as those that don’t.”-Brett Butler
“Last night I dreamed that I ate a ten-pound marshmallow, and when I woke up the pillow was gone.”-Tommy Cooper
-Meghan
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