Post-traumatic (full movement)

It’s a strange feeling when you wake up in your own bed with a woman you don’t remember meeting. I know I left the house last night, which is a rare occasion, but I don’t remember where I went. I know I probably had too much to drink, but this is bizarre; who the hell is she? I stare at her, trying not to breathe, and try to remember what I did last night that could result in a weird situation such as this. Even stranger still, I feel like I recognize her from somewhere. I’m trying to put a name to the face and not having much luck. I slowly push back the half of the blanket covering me; my other hand absorbing any movement I make that might cause her to stir. I rotate my body slowly and plant my feet on the splintered wood floor. My head is pounding and my mouth is painfully dry. I slowly creep out of my bedroom and head down the hallway towards the stairs that lead to the kitchen. I need to kill this hangover before I can think clearly about anything else. I’m really not this kind of guy.
I used to always be the guy with the girlfriend. I find comfort in monogamy, more so than my friends, if you could call them that anymore; friends are expected to actually talk to each other if I’m not mistaken. They would have different woman for the days of the week, something I could never imagine doing. I get attached to a woman; not easily, but when I fall, I fall hard. The feeling though, in my twenty-some years on this earth, has hardly been mutual or reciprocated. I don’t think I’ve had a relationship that was worth remembering, not a good one at least. This has turned me into somewhat of a recluse, the fear of rejection and heartbreak keeps my doors locked and my phone bill unpaid.
I creep down the stairs carefully, even though I know they’re going to creak, regardless of how lightly I tread. The light streaming through the front windows of the dingy foyer forces my eyes to shut and the pounding in my head to increase in pressure. I let out an audible groan and stumble absentmindedly to the powder room down the hall. Aspirin is very necessary on mornings like these, mornings that seem to be increasing in number…minus this experimental variable that is the woman in my bed. Without turning on the light I look at the shadowed reflection of myself in the mirror; brown hair, gray eyes, high cheekbones, two days worth of rough stubble, nothing very exciting. I guess you could say I’m handsome, or at least that’s just what I’ve been told. I turn on the tap and splash cold water on my face, trying to shock myself out of this stupor so I can concentrate on what to do about the woman upstairs. I lean over the sink for a minute to give the water droplets a chance let go of my face before heading to the kitchen.
Everything in this house smells like it’s been dead for years. The large Victorian was built nearly a hundred years ago and probably hasn’t had any renovation for the last fifty. There are strange noises expelled from almost every corner of this place. The wind blows right through it and I haven’t cleaned in months. It’s hard to clean when you really have no one to impress; I’ve been alone for some time now. I don’t leave this place except to buy more booze and cigarettes, occasionally some food, and I feel like I’m slowly becoming a piece of decaying furniture in this place. It is home though. I slouch down in one of the good chairs at the breakfast nook, the other three have at least one leg about to give out, and look for where I put my cigarettes. It’s freezing in this house; too cold to do much of anything. Of course, the cold; I remember now.
The only reason I went out last night is because my heater is broken and I’ve run out of wood for the fireplace that I hardly use. I was feeling particularly low, well, lower than normal. I’ve been very depressed as of late and I thought a couple of whiskey sours at the dive bar on Fullerton might warm up my insides and keep my mood from traveling further south. Truth be told, I didn’t want to drink alone. Again. I find my cigarettes on top of the fridge and spark one up, fumbling with my zippo as I hear the creak of footsteps overhead. She’s awake.
How I met her, I’m not quite sure, but I do remember when I first saw her. She was across the bar wearing a black sweater and jeans. On her feet was a pair of knee-high riding boots that looked as though they’d seen many a better day. Her hair was pulled up into a high ponytail, blonde curls cascading away from her face, making it clear that she wasn’t wearing any makeup. How refreshing it was to see a woman with natural beauty; how contrasting she was in the midst of these drab painted faces. I was probably staring because the next thing I remember is her hopping into the stool next to mine. I don’t know what we talked about, or if we even talked at all. My mind just keeps hovering on that radiant smile she kept flashing my way every so often.
Now here she is, in my home, God knows how we ended up here. I hear the groaning of the water pipes overhead, a tell-tale sign of the shower being started in my bathroom upstairs. Good, this gives me more time to think of what to say in this peculiar situation. I flick on my old coffee maker and pour some water in from the tap, making sure I’ve measured enough for two, then lean against the wobbling counter to further collect my thoughts. I really don’t do this kind of thing, not usually at least. I wonder if she’s the kind of girl to go home with strange men she hardly knows. I really hope not, but then again, I hardly know her either. This is just the way my stupid heart behaves, already getting attached to something it doesn’t know. I realize I left my cigarette teetering on the ashtray for too long. Only a tube of ash attached to a filter remained. I grab another and light up. The coffee finishes brewing and I fill up one of my two mugs, the brown one with the chipped handle, and go to the fridge to look for cream. The barren fridge shows no signs of cream, or any kind of sustenance really, and I secretly hope the girl isn’t hungry. It’s a little embarrassing to live in a place so stark and sad. The only thing in the refrigerator is an almost-full bottle of Jack that I don’t remember buying. Oh well, I guess it’ll do. There’s no harm in a little warmth to start off the day every once in a while. I tell myself this to justify my semi-recent delve into alcoholism; any time is a good time to drink these days. This morning is different though, I’m hoping Jack will act as the liquid courage I need to make this situation bearable, because as of right now I’m a nervous mess with shaky hands. I pour a generous dose of the whiskey into the steaming mug and take a scalding gulp. I’m debating whether or not the cup needs more when I realize the house is silent. Adrenaline pumps with the liquor and caffeine now in my system as I listen for any hint of the woman upstairs. I wonder if I even had any clean towels in the bathroom, or soap for that matter. Shit, I shouldn’t be so nervous. It’s like I’m back in college. I would feel panicked and self-conscious if a girl even so much as looked at me the wrong way after spending the night. That was a long time ago, there’s no reason for me to be nervous in my own home. It’s not like I’ve never spoken to a woman before. I’ve probably spoken to too many for my own good.
I’m not sure if I’m even breathing at this point. The bark of footsteps crashing through the moldy ceiling above is telling me the woman is headed for the stairs. She’ll be here in a matter of seconds and, to be completely honest, I wish I was more drunk. I fidget with my cigarette and gulp the contents of my mug as she clears the last step. I turn to refill my mug with more whiskey; I do this quickly so she doesn’t think I’m some kind of lush. I reach the coffee maker just in time to top off the mug, noticing then that it was more than half full with Jack, and she was there.
She’s wearing one of my old work shirts, the blue one with the coffee stain down the front, and nothing else. Her damp hair falls in tendrils over her shoulders and her bare legs and feet make me shudder. She doesn’t seem to mind the cold. She’s walking towards me casually when I finally look at her face. There’s a fluttering in my stomach that I haven’t felt since, well, I can’t even remember. She’s walking in a straight line with those milky white legs, and then stops with a kiss delicately placed on my cheek. My hand involuntarily replaces her lips after their departure, feeling the faint film of saliva on my sandpaper skin. I immediately regret not shaving, or showering at all for that matter. I focus back on her. She’s reaching for my other mug, having to stand on tip toes to grab it off the shelf over the sink. Smart girl, I didn’t even have to tell her where to find it.
“How’d you sleep?” The sound of another human voice almost startled me. It’s a little raspy, as it should after a night of burning shots and too many cigarettes. I find it sexy. I find everything about her to be sexy. The urge to reach out and touch her is so strong. I debate whether or not I should act on this feeling when I suddenly realize that she asked me a question. I quickly shrug and give her a half smile, not trusting my voice to be stable yet. Those legs, those lips, her hair, her eyes; I can’t do anything but stare.
“What,” she smiled and put the hand that wasn’t holding the mug up to her forehead “is there something on my face?” She lets out a small chuckle as she poured herself a cup of coffee. She lifts her head and glances around the kitchen like she’s looking for something. I’m about to risk breaking my silence to ask her if she needs anything when her eyes light up and she strolls back towards me, her eyes focused on the fifth of whiskey at my left. Her thin arm brushes against mine as she playfully grabs the bottle. I try to keep my face normal so she won’t realize the goose bumps that appeared on my arms after coming into contact with hers.
“I’ve always been a fan of the man who can drink before noon,” she beams at me and pours herself a healthy glug. I chuckle nervously and look down into my own coffee, trying to work up the nerve to say something, anything. She settles into the other good chair at the breakfast nook and looks at me, motioning with a jerk of her delicate chin, to the chair across from her. I hesitate for a moment. How is she so comfortable? I really hope this doesn’t mean she does this all the time with other men. I want her. Maybe she just really likes me. The thought is promising enough to push my body away from my post on the counter and into the spot she’s assigned me.
I sip my spiked coffee frequently, remaining silent for the most part, mostly because she is doing all the talking. Thank god, she’s not as uncomfortable as I am. I give the occasional nod of recognition when she pauses so she can continue twittering vibrantly between generous gulps of her own coffee. I’m having a hard time even paying attention to anything but the melodic sound of her voice. I shake my head slightly and sit up straight so as to force myself to actually hear what she’s saying. She talks about how fall is her favorite season and how she had just gone apple picking with her family in Michigan last weekend; they do it every year around this time. She elaborates and I try to remember if I’ve ever been to an orchard at harvest. I can’t remember, really, but I think I may have gone as a kid or something. She talks about Frank Sinatra and Fred Astaire and about how our generation is in desperate need of a heart-felt and talented crooner. How she thinks none of the music produced after 1979 deserves to be considered worthy of the “Golden Oldies” station on the radio. As she rambles on I realize there is something different about my face. There’s a smile on it. How strange…I wonder how long it’s been there. I blushed and tried to hide behind my own, nearly empty mug, avoiding eye contact with this seemingly perfect woman. I can hardly keep my thoughts from spilling out of my head through my mouth so I keep my lips perched on the chipping ceramic, my mouth’s corners still turned upwards slightly with a hinting notion of that smile.
She stops talking and fixes her eyes on mine, a sideways grin exposing her perfect white pearls of teeth. She exhales slightly and drops her soft yet angular chin into her delicate hand. After a moment of what I think was admiration, she speaks again. The words dancing out between two perfect lips sounded as sexy as silk and as soft as velvet; I’m mesmerized.
“You never could let yourself smile,” she trills as she reaches across the table to lay her hand on mine, the one holding the drink to my face, and gently lowers it until the mug is planted firmly on the table. The sound of the ceramic on the flat surface of the table pulls me out of the hypnotic state her touch seemed to put me in. Never could let myself smile? That’s an awfully deep and defining statement coming from a one night stand’s mouth. Although it was a statement I have heard before, often really, I don’t know how she could know me so well already. Maybe I told her that last night at the bar, but I’m never usually one to talk about myself, especially lately.
A smile spreads across her face as she examines my puzzled expression. I must look like an idiot. I quickly pull my hand out from under hers, causing my mug to tip over and spill its contents all over the table and floor. I stand up quickly and stumble around the kitchen to find a washcloth to clean up the spill before it reaches her side of the table and drips onto her lap. She’s silent for a moment. I stop my frantic search for a moment to look at her face. She’s not talking. Is she mad? I take a step towards her, forgetting about the coffee and whiskey puddle on the floor, and try to apologize. Before any words can escape my mouth my shoe slides across the surface of the puddle which sends me freefalling to the dirty tiled floor. The girl lets out a song of laughter, the last thing I hear before my head hit the ground, hard.
That laugh encompassed my senses. It was so sweet and familiar. Familiar in a way that makes me think; I’ve heard that laugh before. I know that laugh. I loved that laugh…A creeping swell of nostalgia washed over me, the undertow sucking me into a black and silent state of memory. Ramona.
She was an art history major at the college I was attending for my Masters in Literature. I found her laugh late one night in the nearly abandoned campus library. She was sitting alone, reading some dusty wide-spine novel that was causing that melodic laugh of hers to travel and echo down the aisle I was in. I followed the sweet sound to the clearing where the tables were located then stopped, abruptly, when I saw her. She was the most beautiful girl I had seen in a while, maybe ever. Her blonde hair was long and hung in wavy curtains that framed her perfect face. Her porcelain skin was dusted lightly with freckles and her eyes were the most startling shade of green. I was staring, melting, when she looked up at me; those eyes causing my mouth to fall open slightly and attempt to form something close to words.
“Oh, I’m sorry!” she said apologetically, her hand loosely covering her mouth. “Was I bothering you? It’s so late and I didn’t think anyone else was in here.” Her voice was even more inviting than her laugh; sweet with a slight rasp. I was so taken by her that my legs, without my permission, walked me over and sat me down in the chair across from her. She giggled. She looked pleased to have company, even if it was practically drooling and possibly mute.
“I’m Ramona.”
That’s where I met her. We talked for hours that night, after I gained composure of course, and I fell for her instantly. We spent our days lounging in bed talking, our faces pressed to pillows, our limbs intertwined so we were one cohesive being. I remember calling my mother and telling her that I’ve found the girl I will be spending the rest of my life with. She took me with her to Michigan where her family lived. We spend a week apple picking and drinking beer on the big wraparound porch of her idyllic little house. I remember asking her to move in to my dilapidated Victorian with me. She accepted and tried, without much luck, to make the house a home. I remember making love to her in the summer time, the warm and swollen house making our skin sticky, the sound of the busy city around us fading away until there was just the sound of our breathing. God I loved her. I loved her more than I have ever loved anything. It was like we were the only two people on the planet who mattered…then there was him. Oh, how vivid is the memory of when HE ruined everything.
I remember working at a bar downtown one holiday season. I had been working late all week due to the huge surge of Christmas shoppers ending their days with a drink or two. I had actually managed to cut out a bit early and was eager to get home to the warmth of my bed and my girl. I hopped onto the number twelve bus, got off a stop early to grab some milk at 7/11, and walked briskly through the cold until I was at my front door. I stepped into the warm foyer and peeled off my coat and hat. I stopped in the kitchen to put away the milk then headed up the creaking stairs to my bedroom. I swung open the door and stepped inside.
My heart stopped beating when I saw them. Flashes of exposed skin frantically searching for coverage overwhelmed my plane of vision, forcing me to close my eyes. I stopped breathing then. She was trying to explain while grabbing my hands and, panicking, dropping to her knees on the wood floor. I couldn’t hear her. I couldn’t feel her touch on my numb hands. The girl who once encompassed all my senses had, in an instant, taken all of them away.
I don’t remember her explanation, I don’t remember his face, I don’t remember her leaving. The only thing I remember is completely shutting down. For a week I didn’t speak; not a single word to anyone. When I escaped the initial shock I was hardly eating, drinking heavily, and smoking more than my lungs could handle. I cut off all contact with everyone I know. I only left the house to get more alcohol and cigarettes, sometimes food. I can now feel myself coming to; this is the state I’ve been in since she tore everything down. She shattered my soul instantly, leaving me with the torture of having to live in a numb vessel for the remainder of my days. I’ve been undead for almost a year.
I feel my eyes fluttering open and a cool hand on my face. She’s kneeling next to me, her eyes worried, trying to help me regain consciousness. I sit up slowly and look at her, hating her for making me fall in love with her again, when I feel the last bit of my living self die. Using my hands, I push myself off the floor and into a standing position. I don’t look at her but I know she’s still sitting on the floor, a confused look on her face. I feel nothing, but my body is moving towards the foyer and stops in front of the old cabinet to the left of the front door. My right hand slides open the top drawer and pulls out something cold and heavy. My legs walk me back, slowly, through the hallway and into the kitchen. Without a single moment of hesitation, my right hand flies upwards, the object I’m holding now in front of my chest, pointed at Ramona. A single pistol shot rang out through the old house.
A loud noise snaps me out of a deep sleep. I seem to have fallen asleep in my kitchen, atop one of the good chairs. There’s a girl I’ve never seen before sprawled lifelessly on the dirty kitchen floor, dried blood staining the tile and grout in a trail from a single bullet wound in her head.
It’s a weird feeling to wake up in your own home with a woman you don’t remember meeting.

Advertising in American society- 10/29/08

Sex, Money, and Designer Jeans

To walk down the street of any major city in this fine country is to subconsciously observe a mass production of stereotypes manufactured by the major corporations of America. The advertising industry sets invisible rules and guidelines for Americans to live by so they can be socially accepted. You wink at the tall blonde woman with the newest Guess jeans; ipod headphones in her ears and the newest issue of Vogue in hand. You have never met her before but you can already tell she’s cool. In contrast, you move to the other side of the sidewalk as a homeless looking man wearing layers of old clothing and a pair of beat up shoes approaches. Both people do not even acknowledge you, yet you respond to them; you’re conditioned to.
Advertising is one of the most influencing forces in American media. Magazine covers are plastered with gorgeous people in professionally-done make up and the best clothing big business can manufacture and mass-produce. The American public, in turn, feels the need to imitate these idolized figures. They are on magazine covers after all. They must be successful and happy…right? The media teaches us, in order to look like these “people” and ultimately be happy, we have to buy the products they use. We buy clothes and cosmetics that imitate the ideal figure of society. These figures are considered beautiful and successful, so if we buy the products they are pushing, we, in turn, will be considered beautiful and become successful. This unavoidable media conditioning is the driving force of business in America. If we buy what society considers trendy and cool, we are accepted. In contrast, if we don’t look or dress the way that the media tells us is acceptable, we are punished through criticism and judgment.
Adolescence is the prime time in the consumer’s life for the advertising industry to target their prey. Teenagers are already self-conscious and anxious to fit in. The media feed on those with poor self-esteem and a weak sense of identity. A Champion ad found in Cosmopolitan magazine displays two attractive co-eds frolicking about in a park. Both clad in Champion gear, a blonde haired, blue-eyed boy carries an equally gorgeous girl on his back with a football cradled in his arms. The girl has bright white teeth against her tan skin, showcased in a playful smile seemingly saying, “Thank god for these Champion clothes! Now I have this awesome football-playing boyfriend and I’m the coolest girl in school! We’re so happy.” A horny high school boy with bad social skills sees this ad and thinks, “Maybe I should start playing football. I’ll probably get a girlfriend if I play sports. I should head to Sports Authority and pick up some Champion T-shirts first.” Score one for advertising; another consumer hooked by our interpretation of the American Dream.
Now, what if we really want to look like the stars, but can’t afford to keep up with the constant change of trends? Businesses aimed towards budget-conscious consumers try their hardest to mimic the look of more expensive stores, to make people think; even though our prices are low, were still cool and hip! A Payless ad for a teen-targeted shoe and accessory line, American Eagle, looks very similar to higher end retail advertisements. There are a group of attractive teens on a beach, all very attractive, talking and socializing like one would imagine the “cool kids” in high school do. Teens may find this ad appealing initially, but as soon as they see the almost hidden Payless logo in the bottom left of the page, they are apprehensive. What if someone at school asks me where I got my shoes? What if they think I’m poor? Considering the largest text on the page says “American Eagle”, which just so happens to be another, more expensive store, they can answer in one of two ways. They can say they got them at Payless for ten bucks, or if they’re more self-conscious they can say the shoes are American Eagle. This is a genius move on Payless’s part, considering they can still appeal to higher end tastes, without the matching prices. They can be inexpensive without flaunting it. This makes shopping at bargain stores a little less “shameful” to a self-conscious teen.
Sex appeal is also a hard-hitting component in American advertising. A KY ad found in Self-magazine shows an aerial view of a bed with an attractive naked man and woman entangled in purple satin sheets. The woman is staring seductively upwards towards the camera, hair colored like fire, silently saying to the viewer, “Use this lube and you can have sex with people who look like me.” This is probably the most effective way to get a consumer to buy a product. After all, sex is an instinctual part of human nature; everyone has sexual needs and wants. The aforementioned horny teenager sees this ad and thinks, if they go out to the drugstore and buy this product, they’ll get lucky with the opposite sex. This ad is taking an approach at advertising that makes the consumer thing they can take a short-cut to get what they want. Advertisers lead us to believe that some things can be accomplished and achieved if we just buy their product; forget anything about actually working towards a goal or developing a personality. Why bother when the media creates our own opinions, preferences, and self-images for us?
Advertising in America, as well as other countries, portrays the ultimate standard of living. We are made to believe, if we are attractive and buy all the latest designer clothes, we will be happy and successful. I am constantly in awe of just how far advertisements will go. Some advertisements, such at the KY ad I mentioned previously, toe the line of propriety and edge closer to the degradation of the human race in general. Whether it be a woman who is almost fully naked with a greasy hamburger in her mouth or a doctor recommending a diet pill, Americans will always be looking for that quick fix. It could be finding a fast way to lose weight, look hot, and even just be socially acceped. I strongly stand by the motto of “happiness can’t be bought.” If a person is unhappy or upset, then looking at these ads and seeing the highly unrealistic scenes they portray is not going to help their case. Although easier said than done, the advertisements of today’s media are not healthy and should not be taken seriously. Girls should not be looking at these rail thin models and feeling like they need to lose weight and show their stomachs to lead a fulfilling life. Boys should not be taught that all women should be seen as sex-objects and supermodels. Advertisements are exaggerations, plain and simple. So the next time you see an emaciated model in the newest pair of lime green Bebe hot pants, remember this: The goals of advertising can all be narrowed down to one single sentence; we want your money.

Inked. Essay writing 2007

My Dearest Mother,

As you very well know, the day is rapidly approaching when your youngest child by fifty five minutes will be considered a legal adult. Yes Mom, on the 18th of April, 2008, I will officially be eighteen years old. On that very day, the law declares that I have full responsibility over myself and my actions. I am granted permission to vote, join the army, go skydiving, heck I could rent dirty movies if I wanted to. So tell me, if the government says it’s allowed, why won’t my own mother let me get a tattoo? Last I heard I was going to be the one living in this body for the rest of my days. You’re always telling me to treat my body like a temple, and quite frankly, I think this temple needs a little decoration. Since this desire was sparked many years ago, you have constantly barked the line, “When you’re eighteen you can destroy your body all you want.” But as the patiently awaited day moves closer by the minute, your typical line has morphed into “If you want someone to pay for college you better not get a tattoo.” Tell me Mom; is that change of heart very fair? Tricking me to think that if I waited long enough I would finally be rewarded is a cruel and hurtful way to treat your child. So I’m writing you this letter to tell you that maybe this great state of Illinois was trying to say something when they lowered the legal age of tattoo recipients in 2006. They were saying, “Grace Ford turns eighteen in two years, and by law, she definitely deserves a tattoo.” So please Mother, you know I’ve never been keen on disobedience, and the threats of disownment are really starting to sting; just let me get some ink.
Hoping for your blessing,

Grace

Cold Turkey - highschool fiction writing

I wake up in the middle of the night once again, sweating my ass off. It’s not the first time either. Goddamn it. My sleeping problems are bad enough already, why the hell does my dumb ass mother have to turn the heat up 200 degrees every night she doesn’t shoot up. She wouldn’t get the stupid cold chills if she never started in the first place. It doesn’t mean I don’t love her or anything. I do. I mean, she can be a good person sometimes, but when my feet and hands are blanketed in sweat I can’t help but think she’s crazy. I’m only getting hotter just thinking about it. Seriously, she always cranks up the heat when she goes ‘cold turkey.’ I tell her it’s not going to make a difference in hell, but she doesn’t listen. She never listens.
I can’t escape this heat inside and I know sleeping won’t come tonight so the only thing I can do is leave. Jane is still awake, there is no way anybody can sleep in this heat. But I don’t care; I just need to get out. I live in a one story house, so sneaking out of it is just about the easiest thing in the world. We don’t have the money for those noisy window screens, and if we did, Jane would never get around to putting them in. I bet even if we did have the money for those stupid screens, Jane would spend it on “better things,” like I don’t know what she’s talking about or something. Better my ass. Anyway, I called up my best friend James and told him to meet me at the barn. He’s one of those people who don’t really sleep. You know. It’s not like they don’t want to or anything, they just can’t. Like they don’t know how to or something. He just stays up all night and draws. I’m not like that; I’m not much good at sleeping, but don’t go thinking I don’t know how.
It’s the middle of the summer and as you know the nights in the summer are always the perfect temperature. So I just pull on a pair of shorts and an old t-shirt and I’m ready. We found this beat up barn in the woods at the beginning of the summer. I guess the people who owned it died or something and forgot to leave the barn to anyone. No one really knows for sure, but it’s a cool place to hang out, and we have it all to ourselves. The walk isn’t too bad either, just like ten minutes is all. I sat in front of the big barn door and waited for James to show up; he’s always late. But he finally did and he was yellin’ about something.
“Yo man! Your Old Lady is screamin’ her smacked out head off again! Hahaha.” He laughed for about a minute straight. He always makes fun of Jane like that. He thinks it’s hilarious. “She’s pullin’ the old cold turkey again huh!?” he asked. Yeah, he gets a real kick out of her addiction. “Like that’s ever gonna work!”
“Yeah, you’re real funny James.” I wasn’t mad or anything, he’s my best friend and all. James rolled a joint, sparked it, inhaled, then passed it to me. We smoke a lot of pot. Not many other kids at my school smoke or anything, just me and James and a couple others. We smoke just about every day. A lot of kids at school joke around and call us pot heads, but we don’t really care or anything. Smoking is just what we do. I’ve gotten drunk a couple of times I guess. One time, James’ older brother Donny, who’s a big coke head, bought us a handle of vodka. I mean we never do coke or anything, but we drank the vodka with some older girls in the barn. It wasn’t really a big deal or anything. I mean, we didn’t think it was a big deal at all.
We were sitting in the barn for about a half hour when my dime-store cell phone rings. It was loud as hell and scared me hard core. Who the hell would be calling me this late? I thought it was maybe one of those girls I met last weekend who was old enough to drive. A group of them wanted my number and they were all giggly when they asked me for it. I got all excited for a minute, but I was chill, and answered the phone in a deep voice.
“Dirk! Where in the hell are you?!” It was stupid Jane. Since when did she ever go in my room? She hardly ever steps foot in there. She went on for a while, yelling things I couldn’t really understand. “If you’re not home in five minutes I’m gonna kick your ass!” She’s not really going to kick my ass. I mean, she says that all the time but we both know that she’s too weak, and I’m too quick. But she says it all the time anyways, like I’m supposed to be scared of her. She went on cursing at me for a while, but I don’t want to offend anyone. She can get real nasty with her words. It’s so annoying.
I walk home and think about what my mom was saying. God damn, I hate it when she gets like this. I’m getting hot as hell and my head starts to pound. I clench my hands into fists and feel they’re all gross and sweaty and I start walking faster, even though I don’t want to get home in any hurry. My mind is still fuzzy from that joint I smoked with James and I’m walking so fast and not thinking about where I’m going. So I run into this stupid tree. It was such a bitch. It was in my way so I started punching it. I punched the hell out of it for a little while, until my hands and arms got bloody and sore. I wish I could have kept going but my hands hurt too bad. I could have if I wanted to, but it was just a tree, so it’s not like I cared.
I get to the front door of our ugly little house and Jane pulls me in by my stupid cut hand. I yell a little and try to pull away. I keep pulling until I see that god damned belt around the top of her arm. No wonder she’s awake, that stupid junkie; so much for cold turkey. Her saggy gray skin is damp from the heat and her bulging veins look like they’re about to collapse. Collapsed veins were something that dumb doctor said would happen to her if she kept using that god damned smack. I shuffle around the house, trying to tune out what she’s yelling about now. Something about this damn heat. “DIRK! Why you turn the heat up so high like that?! You stupid or somethin’? We gonna die in the hell hole just you wait and see…” She rambles on until she falls asleep with her mouth hanging open on our nasty couch in the den, the belt still around her arm, the empty syringe on the beat up coffee table. Damn. At least she’s done hollering. I can’t take it sometimes, and I’m still not a bit tired. I better turn down the heat and bring the fan out of my room so Jane doesn’t wake up yelling again. I sure hope James is still at the barn, ‘cause there ain’t no way I’m staying in this place.

The Glass family thesis

Seymour, the oldest Glass child, has been a tremendous influence on the rest of his siblings. This factor is shown in the split stories of Franny and Zooey. In a letter Buddy writes to Zooey, he explains their reasoning for taking their youngest sibling’s education into their own hands. “The age differences in this family always seemed to add unnecessarily and perversely to our problems. Not really between S. and the twins and Boo Boo and me, but between the two twosomes of you and Franny and S. and me.” (Salinger 64) Buddy explains that he and Seymour wanted to make sure that their two youngest siblings were educated on the more abstract of teachings, before the more traditional. Zooey blames his older brothers for his critical and apathetic attitude towards others. He considers their teachings to be the main factor that lead him to a life without love. Buddy and Seymour’s fascination with Zen Mysticism also appealed to Franny, exhibited when her internal mantra causes her to faint. “Alone, Franny lay quite still, looking at the ceiling. Her lips began to move, forming soundless words, and they continued to move.” (Salinger page 42) Lane, Franny’s boyfriend, seems mildly concerned at first, but then makes a crude remark about sneaking into Franny’s hotel to have sex later in the night. This incident is a more symbolic, yet graphic indicator of Franny’s inability to love, as well as innocence being corrupted by an outside force. The innocence described by Salinger is subtle in phrasing, but still apparent and effective. For example, Zooey’s mother still scolds him while he’s in the bathtub, or Franny having a bad nightmare on her mothers couch each produce child-like images in the reader’s mind. Franny and Zooey paints a picture of how the Glass family functions while interacting with each other. They understand and love one another, but are incapable of loving those who are not of kin.
A different type of innocence is exuded in “Uncle Wiggly in Connecticut.” Eloise is indefinitely mourning the loss of her lover, who happens to be Walt Glass, who died in an accidental explosion while in the Navy. The use of Salinger’s subtle detailing is displayed in this story by the lack of the soldier’s last name, but based upon the soldier’s careless fault, and previously explained information about the Glass Family Tree, the reader should be able to tell that the lost love is a Glass. An immature mistake, paired with Eloise’s loss of love, is a more physical example of a Glass’ plight. Innocent can mean oblivious in a way that sums up Walt’s existence. Eloise is left to dwell and drown her sorrows while her daughter, Ramona, plays with imaginary boyfriends. Eloise, drunk and lonely, acts on her sadness like a jealous child stealing a toy from her playmate. She refuses for anyone around her to be in love. She denies Ramona the comfort of imagination by making her lay in the middle of her bed, leaving no room for imaginary boyfriends. William Weigand explains this action by stating that “it is the sense of what is missing that causes suffering.” (78 Bananas page 10) In the case of Eloise, the loss of Walt Glass causes her to suffer, which is in turn projected onto Ramona for having an imaginary boyfriend. This imaginary boyfriend that Ramona has is all too similar to the imaginary lover that Eloise longs for after the death of Walt. In the case of the Glasses, the inability to love is what is missing, which in turn causes inevitable suffering.
The inability to love fused with finding love in innocence is brought to the reader’s attention in “For Esme, with Love and Squalor.” Sergeant X is numbed by his experience in the war, mixed with his wife’s material requests in her letters from home. He longs to feel something real and considers hell to be a person’s inability to love. Meeting Esme, an articulate child in a café, gives the sergeant a reason to feel again. He finds comfort in keeping in touch with Esme as stated when the Sergeant receives a package from the young girl. "He just sat with [the watch] in his hand for a long period of time. Then, suddenly almost ecstatically, he felt sleepy" (Salinger 114) The purity radiating off of Esme and her younger brother, Charles, helped Sergeant X better understand that the lack of innocence in an adult’s life can make it seem hard to grow up.
The inability to grow up is emphasized through out the whole of Salinger’s novel, The Catcher in the Rye. Holden Caulfield is an angst-filled adolescent who is documenting the events following his flunking out of school. Holden is constantly penalized for his thoughtless lack of maturity. It seems to Holden’s peers that he is careless and empty minded, when in reality, Holden’s head is plagued with over-analysis. His thought process is similar to that of a curious toddler, consumed with the urge to question everything. The unspoken problem that Holden faces upon reaching maturity is the inability to let go of his childhood. He is attached to previous experiences that he subconsciously will not allow to be forgotten. Holden timidly refuses to see a former crush, Jane, for various spoken reasons, the real one being that the memory he had of Jane was already perfect in his mind. Like marking the clean slate of the freshly fallen snow, Holden doesn’t want to ruin the memory of Jane that he treasures like a worn out teddy bear. Like Seymour forcing love with Muriel, Holden tries to force maturity by drinking, smoking, and the hiring of a prostitute named Sonny. The pressure of being a man wins out momentarily, until Holden’s innocence takes over and just wants to talk to Sonny instead. Holden’s blatant desire to remain a child is present while watching his younger sister Phoebe on the carousel. He is awed by the simplistic perfection that is Phoebe’s purity and happiness. Holden speaks of his younger sister almost jealously, as if he wished he was still as happy and carefree as she is. “I felt so damn happy, if you want to know the truth. I don’t know why. It was just that she looked so damn nice, the way she kept going around and around, in her blue coat and all. God I wish you could have been there.” (Salinger page 213)
Salinger’s mention of a blue coat is also present in “A Perfect Day for Bananafish,” one of Salinger’s Nine Stories that reveals the events prior to the suicide of Seymour Glass. Muriel, Seymour’s wife, is on the phone with her mother while vacationing in Florida. The conversation consists of Muriel’s mother questioning Seymour’s stability, asking about possessions (i.e. Blue Coat), and Muriel defending Seymour, as well as complaining about the vacation. The way both Muriel and her mother were discussing Seymour, the reader could assume that Seymour was an irresponsible child that needed constant monitoring, not a grown and married man. Meanwhile, Seymour is out at the beach discussing the ways of Bananafish with a young girl named Sybil. Their innocence and purity is equivalent on a level that is captured in Seymour’s ability to affectively communicate with the child. One could say that it was perhaps Seymour’s explanation of the tragic life of a Bananafish that sparked an epiphany in the Glass child’s brain. His inability to grow up and move forward in life, like a Bananafish stuck in a cave, was enough to make him want take his own life. This realization would ultimately lead to Seymour’s suicide in his hotel room while his wife lay asleep on the bed next to him. This disregard for bourgeois people, like Muriel and her mother, is a noted characteristic of Salinger’s child heroes.
Some may consider the final chapter in Nine Stories, “Teddy,” to be the reincarnation of Seymour from the first. The advanced spiritual enlightenment that Teddy possesses is on a level that is seemingly impossible for a boy of his age, yet he is truly a child like Seymour, ageless in innocence. His ability to look past the surface of life put Teddy on par with the rest of the Glass children. “I've talked to quite a few doctors." He shook his head. "That wouldn't interest me very much. Doctors stay too right on the surface. They're always talking about cells and things." (Salinger Nine Stories) Teddy’s realization of enlightenment could have been the catalyst that leads to his unexpected and understated death.
J.D. Salinger’s captivating ability to intertwine the lives and experiences of the Glass Family is an amazing feat in fiction. The pureness of each child is captured in drastically different ways yet they can all be placed together. Like the family’s radio show “It’s a Wise Child,” each of Salinger’s young characters possess an unexplainable wisdom beyond their years, yet they struggle to carry on in every day life. It seems no matter how many years or decades pass, the Glass siblings will forever remain “Wise Children.”

a letter to ed

Dear Ed,

I just really wanted to apologize again for what happened the other day. I know I back out of my driveway pretty quickly…I just couldn’t see your tiny little dog scurry under my left rear tire. I wanted you to know that, although your dog barked all day and night, I really liked the little shit. I’m not talking the little shit he would leave in my prize-winning lawn either. My daughters thought little Fluffy, or whatever his name was, was pretty cute. Why would I intentionally kill something that made my kids smile? That’s pretty fucked up if you know what I’m saying. Considering you don’t have kids of your own it would make sense that you would buy a little gerbil-sized dog. A little creature of your own that would constantly run away (like into my driveway) and bite at everyone he didn’t like; which was everyone but you, Ed. So even though my wife had to get four stitches in her right calf last summer after running three blocks down the street from your little demon spawn, I can understand why you would be upset, even though that was kind of a funny sight to see. Admit it. A Chihuahua terrorizing grown adults and small children that are still twenty times his size is just plain comedy. Remember when he pounced on the mailman from your front porch and chomped straight down on his nads? Priceless! I heard about your settlement agreement on that case by the way, $10,000 for testicular reconstruction surgery seems pretty steep Ed; you couldda just put the dog down and been on with your life. So shit, I guess this dog meant a lot to you. I probably wouldn’t even spend ten grand on my own balls to be completely honest. How old was that little thing anyway? It was lookin’ so old that it it was probably gonna die soon anyway. Sooner rather than later right? He probably wanted to go considering all the people he pissed of. He was basically askin’ for it Ed. Like, doggy suicide or some shit, right? Fuckin’ A. So again, sorry for killing your dog Ed. Just please, if you’re gonna get another dog, don’t get something that could die if stepped on.

Your neighbor,
Steve
P.s. It was a cruel joke to name that dog Fluffy. The thing looked like a fuckin’ rat.

Places

The Hangover

I’m pretty sure it’s an old Cadillac, or at least it looks like one. I don’t know much about cars. It’s parked in the back left corner spot of the bank behind my high school, without fail, every day. The bank is where I smoke my cigarettes before school, I‘m always late, but I have study hall so whatever. The car is big and white with navy trimmings, a clear hood ornament, and a grill on the front that you never see on cars anymore. I heard the kid who drives it is a big creep, or at least that’s what Katie told me. I think he’s in my photo class. He wasn’t at school last year because his parents sent him to rehab or something crazy like that. Maybe that’s why I’ve never seen him before today; he seems nice, at least he does to me. He steps out of the car and introduces himself.
Mark? Hi, I’m Grace. Nice to meet you.
We’re already late for class so I agree to sit inside and get to know the new face; It is freezing after all, too cold for October, and I don’t have a coat on. The seats are perfectly worn in and I sink into them as I shut the heavy door. It has weird handles in an awkward place on the door, making it hard to shut all the way without maneuvering my hand in an uncomfortable twist. It takes me two tries. Mark says no one ever gets it right the first time. The inside is all blue leather, the same navy that trims the exterior of the car, which Mark tells me is a Chrysler, not a Cadillac. My bad. He bought it for a mere $1,000 from his grandpa and has been working on it for the past year or so. He turns the key to start up the engine. Without any warning an earth shattering bass blares from the Chrysler’s speaker system. I jump and laugh nervously.
Shit that scared me.
He chuckles and twists some knobs. He’s spent more money on his stereo system than the actual car itself. I can tell. I wonder what kind of music he likes. He looks at me with a scheming grin.
Hey.
I turn to look at him, he looks excited, and raise my eyebrow in curiosity.
Do you really feel like going to school today?
I grin and shake my head no.
That’s what I thought.
He puts the car in reverse and pulls out of the bank parking lot, music thumping, and we are on our way. This day changed my life.
The best and worst times of my high school career can, in some way or another, be traced back to this car. I met my first love, Mark’s best friend Jon, in this car. I fell hard and fast. He was a trouble maker of some sorts and spent most of his time either working or grounded. So Mark and I would cruise around in the Chrysler to visit him at work or home. I didn’t know it then, but my world would temporarily fall apart, because of this car. This car picked me up every morning for school, habitually late of course, and would take me home after “dance practice”, which was where I told my mother I was every day after school. I had quit the dance team for this car, spending hours driving and talking with friends, because I didn’t want to miss out on the fun. I had quit the dance team due to a dark secret that this car allowed me to mask. A problem that only this car seemed to know about. I didn’t want to scare away my new friends with my own aged problems. We were having too much fun being kids. In fact, I deemed this car “The Hangover” after one particularly hard night of drinking and other, more secretive, illicit extracurricular activities.
Shotgun.
My head is pounding and I think I’m gonna be sick. There’s nothing worse than the back seat of this car and there’s no way I’m sitting back there. I step in the front seat and put my hood up all the way so it’s covering my eyes; it hurts to look at the sun reflecting off the snow. My mouth tastes like the vague memory of spending a couple hours over the toilet last night after one too many shots. A metallic taste is still dripping down my throat, making my eyes water and my nose run. I’m paranoid that some one will find out my secret. Mark looks just as bad, minus my guilt, as do the other two kids in the back. I feel like shit. Mark nods in agreement and starts the car.
“BOOM!”
Holy shit Mark turn the fucking music down.
My head is vibrating in aftershock from the harsh blow of the subwoofers. We had been blasting some bass-heavy band when we had pulled up to the party last night, obviously forgetting to turn the music down before exiting the car, with various bottles and cases that we were about to consume. When the slicing pain dulls I chuckle.
This car is seriously a moving hangover.
Everyone is still holding their heads but I can tell they’re smiling; our home finally has a name.
It was a time in my life when I needed a couple pills to wake up in the morning. What started as recreational experiment introduced by an old friend turned into a reckless addiction. I was lying to everyone I loved, stealing from my family, and wasting away to nothing. I had quit dancing, my passion, and spent my time smoking cigarettes in this car, deflecting any glimpse of concern from others. I hid my problem from everyone, telling them I was just anxious, that I just didn’t feel like eating. This continued for a few months, until one night, in the heart of winter, my world came crashing down on my shoulders.
Mark, I’m really not feeling well.
My hands won’t stop shaking and I’m feeling clammy all over.
Are you ok? You’re not looking too good.
Mark turns to me at a red light and examines my face.
Yeah, I just haven’t eaten much today; too much caffeine.
He gives me a skeptical look.
Alright, whatever you say.
We pull into my driveway and I unbuckle my seatbelt.
Thanks for the ride.
I know I’m weak because I can hardly close the heavy door. I avoid icy patches as I punch in my garage code and make my way into the kitchen. It’s uncomfortably warm and it smells like I just missed dinner. Good, I’m not hungry anyway and I won’t have to make another excuse not to eat.
Grace, you need to give me your purse.
My mom is suddenly in front of me. She looks angry.
Why? What did I do?
I don’t want to show her. I can’t show her. I make an attempt to pass her and escape to my room, to eliminate all evidence, but she grabs my arm and swings me around to face her.
Give it to me now.
I’m crying. She grabs my purse and spills it out on the kitchen counter.
Jesus Grace.
She’s crying. Various pills, prescription bottles, and powders cover the table. Oh no. It’s over. I’m suddenly laying on the stone floor of what most people like to call rock bottom.
I was put away. Away from those lazy afternoons blasting music. Away from the distraction of exciting new friends. Suddenly I was confronted with myself, alone, without comfort. This raw stripping of my comfortable surroundings left me feeling homeless and scared. So I did what I had to. I dealt with myself, got to know myself, and fixed myself. After four weeks of being removed from my social surroundings I was finally free. My mom picked me up and took me to the bank parking lot, which was my request, and told me to be home in one hour. It was 3:00 pm, ten minutes before school got out. Sure enough, there it was, this car that I loved so much. I sat on the hood and waited for my friends to get out of class, looking at the clouds, appreciating the fresh air of the first signs of spring.
Holy shit, it’s Grace!
Mark is running towards me. I sit up and smile. Mark lifts me up in a hug and spins me around.
We thought you were dead!
Jon hugs me for what seems like ten minutes. I’m comfortable, finally, being held by the boy that I love. I’m not worried about keeping a secret that could ruin everything I’m so blessed to have in my life. My boys look at me in appreciation. I can finally see clearly. I’m a lucky girl.
Shotgun.
I grin at the boys and we hop in the car, enjoying each other’s company, and the wealth of being young. I know I’ve had my whole life given back to me. With my elbows propped on the edge of the open window, I smile, finally able to enjoy the car, my sanctuary, with a clear head and a new appreciation for everything it has done for me. I have two of the best friends in the world. I have a body that is fully functioning and healthy. I have a new appreciation for life and all of the people in it. I have a caring family who would do whatever it takes to make me happy. I love my life. I love this pla

object essay

For Good Luck, Rub My Belly
To look at this little gold figurine, paint chipped off the nose and hands from time, most people wouldn’t think it much more than a novelty; something you could by at a gift shop for less than two dollars. Short and stout with a sack over his shoulder, water jug in hand, my little Buddha means so much more to me than a petty knickknack.
The Buddha was given to me by my mother when she wanted me to get a job. She told me he was the “Prosperity Rupa” and that I should rub his belly so I would find a way to make some money. I looked at the fat little man and laughed. Was she serious? Did she honestly believe that rubbing a stupid plastic idol would bring luck my way? So I rubbed the stupid belly then put the Buddha on my desk and went about my life. Within a week I was employed. It was an awful job, but a job none the less.
I was working at a chain restaurant called Noodles. It was one of those jobs that required you to wear a baseball cap with your hair tied up and your shirt tucked in to a pair of dark jeans; I felt like a tool. I must have looked the part because I was treated as such. Suburban mothers with their armies of brats would come into the store and dictate to me about their child’s well balanced, gluten free diets, then expect me to tell them what would be the best choice of food. When I said something that was not to their liking, which was most of the time, they would turn up their noses and ask to speak to someone who “knew what they were talking about.” I gladly went to the back room to find someone else who would deal with the costumer, and usually ended up wrapping silverware for the remainder of my shift.
To understand those aforementioned “Soccer Moms”, one must first understand where I grew up. Naperville is an ever-expanding suburb located 45 minutes south of Chicago. It’s a wealthy place where you’ll see a new house being built on almost every street, each one seemingly larger than the next, and definitely more expensive. Money Magazine comes out with this list every year titled “The 100 Best Places to Live”, and from 2003 to 2006 Naperville held the silver medal; we citizens of Naperville are a proud people. So proud, in fact, that the government officials and public service officers want to make sure that us young kids don’t screw everything up. A teenager in this splendid suburb is treated like someone who is about to set fire to the next house they see. Mothers hold their children close as a young boy with a backwards hat approaches, thinking he just might be the hooligan who broke their mailbox with a bat just three nights ago. In all reality, that backwards cap was probably purchased by another mother, like herself, for $75.00 at some boutique on Jefferson Street.
This double standard between affluent adults and equally wealthy teenagers makes it hard for a middle-class girl to find work. To most people living in Naperville means one thing; you’re loaded with cash. This was not the case for my family. Sure, we used to be members of the smug and bitter crowd, until we were seemingly outcast. My dad worked for United Airlines during the time of the September 11th attacks, so like many others from the same company, he was fired within a week of the tragedy. With the job market so poor, it was difficult for him to find a job with a salary anything close to what we were used to. So after almost a year and a half of unemployment, which was a year and a half of dirty looks from neighbors and ex-coworkers, he eventually settled for less. This humbling experience put us in a smaller house, suited each member of my family with a smaller ego to go with it, and we kept moving forward with our lives.
When I turned sixteen, a time where most of the kids from my high school receive their first BMW or Mercedes, I received a stack of job applications and that stupid gold Buddha from my mother. He sat on my desk with that toothless grin, laughing at me every night when I got home from work wearing that stupid black hat, smelling of dish soap and parmesan cheese. I hated him. Big fat Buddha with his belly full of food and his bag full of money; I envied him. Alas, I was still making money, enough to finally put a down-payment on a 96’ Ford Contour Sport. I was proud of that car, proud of all the high strung mothers I had to deal with to finally receive it, and proud of myself for sticking it out.
While doing homework one night, I glanced over at the Buddha and felt a twinge of guilt in my heart, I had been so mean to him. For all I know he could have very well been the reason the Cosmos blessed me with a job. The job that made my parents proud of me. The job that gave me the faded black hat, that still reeks of pasta sauce and sweat, hanging on my closet door handle at home. The job that paid for my beat up car that I loved so much. I decided I should show the little fat man some respect. With a square pad of double-sided adhesive, I stuck him to the dashboard of my car, and rubbed his belly every time I got in it. This gratuitous act of affection to my Buddha has, I believe, given me the opportunity to come to a wonderful school on several grants and scholarships. I brought him to school with me and he sits on my desk, looking at me as I write this, and I give him a belly rub most every day.

Killjoy in the suburbs

I don’t think I can stand another minute in this sweaty building. The boiling pots of water fill the front of the kitchen with steam, making the walls perspire, and my stupid logo t-shirt smell like shit. Dante should have visited this place before writing his inferno; it’s hell.
I got this stupid job the day I turned sixteen. Located smack-dab in the middle of downtown Naperville, Noodles sees the worst our city has to offer, and I’m a witness of it all. Being the face of the store, cashier, I have to deal with all types of people: The power soccer mom with a gang of kids and a list of bitchy commands, the drunken high school girls that hang off their jock boyfriends who order a diet coke and nothing else, the entire college football team after a big game. For lack of a more poetic phrase, I’m gonna have to say, this fucking sucks.
Sometimes I piss people off on purpose, hoping maybe I’ll be sent home for the night, or at least put in the back to roll silver wear. I guess it could be worse. I could actually be serving these horrible people. That wouldn’t go over well. It would only be a matter of time before a yuppie middle aged woman with a overly-botoxed face and too much perfume criticizes me one too many times then, oops, lap full of hot soup. I laugh. Its day dreams like this that keep me sane. Sometimes I’ll tuck a piece of paper under the cash register and draw what I see at the tables. There’s the pre-teen girls to the right of me, picking at their food and talking about boys, shirts protruding from the rumpled socks they’ve stuffed into bras they don’t even need to be wearing. I’ll draw them as vampires, waiting for any chance to suck the blood out of any gossip that comes about, or any boy that shows them the slightest bit of attention. I’ll draw the table of hypoglycemic old women, too insulin-heavy to be eating so much glucose, picking over each other’s corpses with their bifocals perched on the tips of their noses. I continue with these drawings until I get bored or until my manager, Peter, tells me to get back to work.
Oh God. Peter, how could I forget? Peter is this red headed asshole who thinks running a Noodles is the most important job in the world. For my whole first month of work this jack-off would make me measure and weigh each individual ingredient of any salad. Yeah. Fucking exactly three ounces of cucumbers or whatever the hell it was. I mean this guys a total joke. I guess he used to manage a Panera. Go figure. I bet he got fired for freaking out on a little blonde girl for putting two tablespoons of cream cheese on someone’s bagel rather than one and a half. Sometimes I plot ways to get him fired. Maybe I’ll pass him in a way that his hand may swipe against the ass of my jeans. I could totally file sexual harassment. Man. Sometimes I wonder why I put up with all this shit. I mean, the money is great and it definitely helps, but having to go through this circle of hell every day after having been put the it’s predecessor, wealthy suburban high school. Man. This fuckin’ sucks.

OD rewrite

He told her to kill a man. He couldn’t justify any meaningful reason, other than the fact that he is a hopeless human being; a pathetic waste of time and space.
Joel is pacing the cheap linoleum floor of his apartment building’s lobby. The sand colored paint on the walls is chipping, exposing more and more rough white as the days go by, weathering away as the days grow colder. It got dark fast tonight. The only light is overhead, fluorescent and flickering occasionally. The lamp holding the bulb sways, as does Joel, with the wind coming through the propped open door. His palms are clammy and cold as his fever creeps higher and higher. He’s sick. Joel’s head is so full of thought that he begins to question if he will ever think clearly again. The fever is starting to get to him and he wonders if he will be able to stand for much longer. Joel looks down at his slipper clad feet. He can feel them getting clammy, wetting the soles of the plush material, forcing a squeak of friction as he paces on. He needs his fix.
She was just so willing, so excited, to do anything that would bring him joy. What she didn’t realize was the feeling others know as happiness is absent in his vacuous shell of a life. He hasn’t felt the sun touch his skin in years. He’s forgotten how to laugh, or how a genuine smile actually feels as it creeps across a face, he’s void of all humanity. He hasn’t felt the twitter of first kiss butterflies in so long he can’t remember what love even feels like; if he’s even experienced it at all. There’s only one thing on earth that can simulate a feeling of any relevance with this world, and she’s killing so he can have it. What a girl. She loves him.
She. Where is she? She’s been gone for hours, she should be back by now. Every minute she is gone pushes Joel further into his head, fearing the worst, wanting his fix. The heat in the lobby is making him spin. Joel stops pacing and looks at his watch. The face is sliding around his wrist and he can’t make out the numbers and hands. He wishes so desperately to go outside, get some fresh air, but that’s not part of the plan. He shakes his head sharply as if to clear the haze plaguing his vision, and goes over the steps of their plan again. Don’t even look at her. She’ll walk in and head directly to the main stairwell to the left of the elevator, which is what he will be taking. They cannot be seen together. A precaution just in case names are dropped and they are find. She will take the fall. What a girl. Just as Joel feels a wave of sickness approaching, the light swings violently overhead with a big gust of wind from the door; she’s back.
Without a word spoken, Joel waits for the elevator as Celia takes the stairs, so as to avoid the watchful eye of the security camera. Joel is so weak that the push of the elevator causes his legs to give out. It’s one of those mirrored elevators. Great. A 360 reminder of how pathetic he is; as if he wasn’t seeing double already. He grabs the railing in the elevator to help himself up as he reaches the sixth floor. The burgundy blood colored carpet stretches, seemingly endless, down the moldy smelling hallway. For a moment Joel forgets where he is, he’s so sick, but then sees a flash or reddish blond hair. He knows where she’s hiding. Celia.
Joel rounds the corner of the hallway and stops in front of his door, his fingers shaking as he fumbles with his keychain, he can’t seem to steady himself. He manages to fit the right brassy key into the lock and pushes hard; the goddamn door always sticks. Teetering, Joel rests his forehead on the cool and glossy wood of the door, catching his breath. He has to keep going. It’ll be alright soon. Before he was all the way inside he felt her behind him; her scent like a cool breeze, her energy like a hot slap in the face. Celia rushes past him, avoiding even the slightest brush of skin, and plops down on the couch. Joel still stood by the door, astonished at her aloofness, considering what she had just done. She actually did it. She did it for him.
“I think it’s pretty good shit, but it’s not like I really got to dip in while I was there, the asshole wouldn’t stop breathing.” Celia is occupied with the bag now. Her wavy red hair, straight out of a CVS box, is covering her face. She’d been crying. For the first time in a long time Joel feels something other than dope sick; sympathy. She tucks one side behind her ear and looks at Joel for the first time all night. “By the end of it all I pretty much just had to grab the stash and hope he was dead.” Her eyes were streaked with cheap mascara, most of it running down her cheeks, she was a mess.
Just the sight of her makes Joel feel his sickness in full force. Of course she fucked it up. Nothing is ever this easy. He feels a hot anger color his sunken cheeks as his hands push on the sockets of his eyes. He doesn’t want to see the stupid girl on the couch; her faux fur hooker coat and ripped stockings. What a goddamned joke she is. Didn’t make sure he was dead? Is she fucking kidding? They’re dead. He knew she was a bad idea from the start; cheap and easy, willing to do just about anything for something that might one day be considered love. For a moment he keeps his hands over his eyes, wishing he hadn’t gone through with this, but she did give him what he wanted. He had almost forgotten about the huge brick of beige powder on the table. Joel’s hands fly from his face and pull him violently towards the big bag on his plastic coffee table. Pushing Celia off the worn in couch, he digs into the stash; fuck her. He knows she’s in a state. Why shouldn’t he be?
“How could you leave without making sure he was dead? How could you be so careless?!” Joel’s arms are shaking angrily as he cuts off a large piece of the stash, the endless outcomes of Celia’s departure from the scene unfold unforgivably in his mind. So many things have gone wrong. So many terrible things are about to happen. It her fucking fault. But he can hardly bring himself to care: He got what he wanted. He knows what he has to do. His left jerks upward to extend a pointed finger at Celia.
“They followed you here! They know where I live! How could you be so fucking stupid?!” She’s trembling, tears flowing once again, and Joel knows that she’s afraid of him. Taken aback for a moment he realizes; she really does love him. She would do anything for him. His pathetic being would do anything for Smack, like asking a nineteen year old girl to kill a drug dealer, he has to be fucking crazy. She was only doing what he told her to do, what he was too cowardly and dope sick to do himself, because she cares. His glare softens.
“I’m sorry. I’ve been sick and worried about you all night. I know you did what you could, and I’m thankful. I bet no one even saw you there at all. They’ll just find their dude there tomorrow, and no one will know who did it. It’ll be ok.” His voice is quivering with anticipation of the huge shot he was about to take and he could tell he was convincing himself, making excuses for Celia’s carelessness, just so he can shoot up as soon as possible. Joel looks up and sees Celia’s face. He knows he hurt her. He wants so badly to stand up and be a man, console her, but his arms have already started going through the motions that they know so well. He ignores his yearning to hold Celia and instead grabs his worn out leather belt by the buckle and slides it through his dirty 501 Levis. He focuses on the shot in one hand and the pock mark in the center of his now bulging vein of his left arm. The shot’s too big. He knows he’s supposed to do this.
Joel pulls the belt even tighter in his teeth as he pushes off into nothingness. As he exhales, all of his sickness goes away, he was born to do this. He’s gonna die doing it. He felt his body go limp as Celia’s eyes widened. She rushed to his side, the sound of thumping footsteps in the hallway outside wasn’t enough of a distraction, she threw herself onto Joel’s limp figure. His eyes slid shut for the last time as the heavy door to Joel’s shit-hole apartment was kicked to the ground with a bomb-like thud.
“No.”
It was the last word uttered by the one who loves Joel as the love of his life, his only true companion, slowly fades his pulse. Heroin. His true love took him far away from the three men who broke into his apartment to steal Celia away. She’s screaming as they rip her off of Joel’s lifeless form. The three men leave his body for dead as he floats away with the love that flows steadily through his veins. He wanted this to happen.

getting the flow.

So, I'm having a hard time planning on what I should post here. I want to get things flowing before I post this blog for other people to read. I want to be able to share things without over-sharing

so here's what I'm gonna do.

Everything on this blog (unless otherwise stated) will be considered FICTION. These are stories, poems, and occurrences that I thought up in my head and chose to share with the world.

Keep that in mind ;-)

-Oh, Sweet Radio.

well hello there

so. I'm actually gonna try this.


enjoy my story.