old story, revised a little.

“Monday”

            Waking up, I’m blind in a pitch black room. I get up lazily, feeling the urge to pee. Unable to adjust my eyes, I rely on my mouse-in-a-maze instincts to find the bathroom down the hall. Forgetting how sensitive my eyes are in these wee hours of the morning, I immediately regret flipping on the light switch, feeling the sting of the fluorescent light hanging above my head.

            I look into the mirror through squinted eyes, purple dots infecting my vision, like purple chicken pox. I look dead with the purple complimenting my ghostly pigment.

            Redirecting my attention back to my bladder, I look towards the toilet. Inside the pearl bowl there is shit stained toilet paper.

            The forecast for today is soggy with a chance of unnecessary situations; the shit stains told me so. The first five minutes of waking up is a pretty good indicator of what to expect the rest of the day.

            Walking back to my room I try to remember what I’m supposed to do today and nothing in particular comes to mind. Coffee. Eat. Clothes. Work. Eat. Sleep.

            My days always seem to start like this. As important as people believe consistency to be, I’ve grown bitter towards it. My life is like a plain, stale bagel. I drink cheap coffee, put on cheap clothes, and go to work at a gas station where people buy cheap junk food and overpriced gasoline. Then I go home, deal with a slob roommate who’s shit stains I can remember better than their face, eat cheap food, drink more cheap coffee, waste time, then sleep again to re-energize for another day just the same. Like I said, my life is a plain, stale bagel. Nothing too interesting. Nothing remarkable. Just a bagel.

            Ever wake up and think to yourself, “What in the Hell am I doing?” That’s my life every day, every night, all the time. The question eventually loses meaning and you forget the past goals of yours that once prompted you to ask the question in the first place.

            I wouldn’t mind living this less than average mundane routine, except I can’t remember the last time I actually felt like I was a significant part of it.

            Sometimes after work, I’ll walk the long way back to my apartment in hopes of someone doing something unforgivable to me. I pray for a life altering experience. Apparently God is not listening. I get home safely to my cage every time.

            What do I have to do to change this pointless routine? Maybe I should wear a sign that says, “THE END IS NIGH!” and wait for my little piece of cardboard to come true.  Maybe I should start doing drugs, go to AA, meet another addict, fall in dysfunctional love and have semi-retarded children. Maybe I should go back to school. Maybe I should quit my job. Maybe I should shave my head and join a gang. Maybe I should lose weight and get a tan. I don’t know what I have to do: Every choice sounds expensive or boring and I don’t have the attention span for either.

            Anyway.

            My internal conflict has taken up thirty minutes of my time and I need to leave the apartment within two minutes if I want to make it to work on time. I hate being late, so I rush out of the house. My stomach jiggles like jell-o when I run, but you can’t tell when I wear my work shirt.

            Feeling a pain in my lower abdomen, I realize that I didn’t drink my coffee and I probably should have brushed my--

            Suddenly, I’m slammed up off my feet and the pain I’m feeling is splintering and rough. I can hear bones break. I can’t scream or yell because there’s no air left in my body. I’m nothing but a rag doll in this moment.

            I taste pennies in my mouth. Blood has found its way out in so many places on my body that I probably couldn’t stop it if I tried.

            I see a white Minivan dented in a terrible kind of way.

            Dented by my now broken, useless body.

            People are screaming, watching my body tumble into oblivion and a part of me wants to laugh. Tires screech to a halt and pain has never looked better on me. I’m a crumpled and twisted mess flying onto a cracked sidewalk and I’m wondering why I’ve never felt this good before.

            Is it wrong of me to feel perfect?

            Salvation has taken shape in the form of a Minivan.

            I close my eyes to smile and dream.

            Maybe God was listening to me.

feelin rusty

Earth is like this big, beautiful ball of metal. It's hard and strong. It can deflect bullets, as if shrugging off the day from it's $2,000 Armani suit shoulders. It can reject moons, staying monogamous to one, making Jupiter and Saturn look like a couple of sluts. It rolls and sways in the universes gravity, giving off a blinding shine when the sun hits its side--and even though there are other planets much, much bigger than Earth, it shines so much they are afraid of Earth and how powerful it is.
Then there's people. The rust of this wonderful metal. The once bountiful nutrients, now endangered: The strength of the Earth being siphoned through eager machinery, fueled by depleting resources and greediness.
         The shining metal is now slapped with splashes of orange, red and brown layers of rust. Sometimes the rust piles and concentrates in a single area, and the once beautiful metal becomes corroded and weak. It doesn't shine when the sun hits it, the Earth cries. The sun is now harmful to the decayed metal, like a bad sunburn leaving blisters on the skin. The other planets laugh and Saturn and Jupiter relish in the Earth's ruin, groping onto their moonish polygamy more than ever before. Sometimes the weakened Earth can hear them talking over who gets to take the Earth's moon when it finally rusts to nothing. The Earths moon mourns in silence.
         The shining metal creaks and weathers away, being forced to give up its vanity, pride, and health...all the while, the rust grows and expands. The reach of the rust is unmarked and viral. Soon, the metal will no longer be visible, and the red, oranges, and browns of rust will dominate the once powerful metal that was Earth.

rut a tut tut

I feel like I want to write so much, but have nothing to say
Maybe everyone should just shut up for a day. We can make it a national holiday--you know, one that every faith, race and sexuality can enjoy.

Christmas List

I want to live.
I want to read.
I want to eat persimmons.
I want to find joy in everything.
I want to love everyone.
I want to hug people more often.
I want to marry Michael Whisman.
I want to feel fulfilled everyday.
I want to scream at the top of a mountain.
I want to camp for days.
I want to get lost up in big bear like Pazely and I did years ago.
I want to tell people I dislike, to fuck themselves.
I want to tell bad people why they're bad.
I want to help people.
I want to learn about God.
I want to write something profound and lasting.
I want to be a part of theater.
I want to travel everywhere.
I want to go to parties and sing karaoke.
I want to run everyday.
I want to be courageous enough to look foolish in front of anyone.
I want to feed into Holiday Consumerism and decorate my house EVERY year
I want to use my money buying things for people.
I want to take road trips to the beach at two in the morning, just to catch the sunrise.
I want to keep my friends, no matter how long I haven't seen them.
I want to stay as hopeful as I am now, forever.
I want to make people feel like the world has hope.
I want to have two children: Vincent Michael and Penelope Marie.
I want to make everything I'm a part of better.
I want to be in a snowball fight and go sledding.
I want to cuddle on cold nights and watch movies to pass the cold time.
I want to cry for everything deserving of such a powerful emotion.
I want sick people to feel better.
I want my family to find peace with themselves and discover faith.
I want my mom to find happiness the most.
I want to drive with the windows down, a car full of friends, singing a song at the top of our lungs.
I want all things vanilla.
I want to stop wanting.
I want to appreciate being alive.
I want to taste, smell, touch and hear life and be worthy enough to appreciate something so incredible.

explanation

there are times when you want to explain something
but there would be so much explaining to do that you're at a loss for words
you would have to sum up years of experience in short, general phrases
memories could be hazy and you might get a part wrong
lines and stories may not add up
different emotions, feelings and words would get lost through translation
and you would end up cutting yourself short
knowing that there was so much in that time
so many things said and done
so many moments
you'd get so frustrated and heartbroken trying to explain something so profound
to someone who could never understand
that the only consolation to yourself would be a deep breath
and acknowledge that it's too much to say in one conversation
and so with one person confused, but unmoved
and the other, you, nostalgic and lonely in thought that can't find solace in empathetic ears
with this, all of this, a part of yourself gets buried and your mind tries to digress
memories and feelings that were once so important being stored away
little by little, in between short handed conversations and no way to express yourself
you get lost
   you forget who you are
           slowly, you disappear

Coming Clean

Dear Timothy,
      Your girlfriend Sofie found me on a Tuesday, several months ago, and since then we have gotten to know each other very well. I know things about her that no one else does. She turns to my comfort day after day and you still don't know. You don't know that I take care of her in ways that you can't.
      The truth is, Tim, I've seen you two together in rare moments and I watch your hands fumble around her. I noticed that you don't reach the places I can, nor do you take the time to touch or caress them.You rush and trip over your fingers. It's less about love and more about charades with you, it seems.
       I know things about your girlfriend that you don't. You don't take the time to, Timothy. But I do. For example, I know that she has a freckle on the back of her neck that you can't see unless she lifts her hair when you're close behind her. I know that her favorite smell is a warm vanilla cinnamon: I've known this almost as long as I've known her . I know that her favorite spot to get rubbed is her lower back. In soft, slow motions. I know that she has soft and slender arms leading to soft and feminine hands that guide me around her body whenever we meet. From her breasts, to her hips and thighs and right down to her toes, I've known our beautiful Sofie. Almost everyday, I know her over again.
      I realize this might upset you; however I couldn't keep doing this without you knowing how personal Sofie and I's relationship has gotten.
      I'm sorry Tim, but you're not the only one touching your girlfriend.
                             My regards,
                                     Sofie's Shower Loofah.

Fall

There is something about Fall that makes me feel so nice. It's like I get so excited that I die a little on the inside--in the best possible way, of course.

What got me thinking about this was that I was walking around the lake at the college with my pink little sweater on, hot drink in hand, and I felt so happy. I could see leaves fall and ducks swim around, pecking at each other, people wearing boots and cuddling themselves or each other for some kind of warmth. I wasn't expecting all of that to be as uplifting as it turned out to be.

I don't know what it is about Fall. The sun is out, but it's not as bright as summer, or as hot and violent. There's a coolness to the air that makes me feel like I could quite possibly be the most romantic person in the world. Which isn't true, but it makes me feel like I could be.

I start thinking about scarves and pumpkins and being with friends. Cuddling comes to mind and stay-at-home days when all we do is bake and watch movies, covered under blankets. It's strange to think how much happiness a time can bring. I have no idea what will happen this Fall, but I'm so irrationally happy at the simple fact that I'm living at this moment of time, that I could care less.

So, thank you, Fall, for making every year worth the wait to get to your season of loveliness.