Shitfaced
I walked down the broken stairs in a buzzed and bubbly haze. Everything and everyone was beautiful, even the cushionless couch on the first floor. So uncomfortable, but so necessary at the same time. My headache grew, and so did my grin. I smiled at everyone. What a mistake. As I was making my way down the stairs, I made the mistake of waving to a girl with a nose ring. She returned the gaze for a second too long, and I averted my heavy eyes to the spotted nape of the girl in front of me. I felt a slight tap on my shoulder. Swiveled my head slowly behind, slightly wincing for some reason unbeknownst to me. "Wait," she said, "weren't you so-and-so's girlfriend?" Her eyes no longer were luminescent, they were stones. Everything lost its sparkle.
Of course, I answered without thinking. "Yes!" I exclaimed.
Her smile faded as quickly as my buzz did. "Oh," she sneered, "I'm one of his best friends."
Oh, fuck.
In a moment's time, that couch grew larger and larger and I smaller and smaller (was I Lilliputian?) I wanted to hide my face in it. Shit. The girl in front of me was moving at a sloth's pace. I almost thrust myself down the spiral staircase. I figured I'd be killing two birds with one stone, or however that saying goes. I'd break my neck, which would please my frenemy, but I'd also be out of that dilapidated hellhole ASAP. Succumbing to my ego, I gulped, stuck out my hand and said, "Well, nice to meet you!"
Swallowing pride is hard to do, apparently. Went home and made friends with my reflection in the toilet for a few hours. It was hard to make myself out through all of the shit floating in it, though. I don't really know what all was in there, but I guess I'm full of it.
The Laptop
Next day, I had to go home. My body seems to be physiologically incapable of feigning kindness, and punished me via toilet torture. I was awake perhaps 6 hours on Monday. My mother offered me her lap on which to rest my head; I opted for the laptop. Tender 98. 6 degree thigh, or electronic warmth that will most likely give me brain cancer with its radiowaves? Let's go with the latter. And to think, I was pissy with my mother that afternoon because my headache didn't go away. What a cold little shit. Given a choice, I choose what doesn't give back--typical.
While I was awake, I was inundated with advertisements concerning cellulite, wrinkles, and stretchmarks (thanks, God), soon to be followed by McDonald's commercials. You know the end is nigh when even Mother Nature needs lipo. Trim the fat, you know. But I thought that's what capitalism was for? Turns out we're all just pigs who eat pigs.
"Be the change you wish to see in the world." Yeah, whatever.
I felt like being friendly today. We were discussing Gandhi in class, what can I say. A few seats to my left sat a thin and rather insect-like boy, resting his emaciated frame on the table. The professor left us for group discussion, and allowed us to choose our groups. Decided to extend a warm and ink stained hand to a stranger. I had to ask twice, but no big deal. He scoots closer to me and my impromptu group, and I think all is good. He feels like "part" of something, it's the first step!
So we discuss peace and violence, and how Gandhi felt that while violence may appear good in the moment, it's disastrous, and well, worse, in the long run. It's all about the satyagraha, baby. In a casual glance, I noticed was wearing a Radiohead shirt; I figured he was pretty informed of world affairs, and either libertarian or a crazy liberal. I wanted him to open up, so I compared that to the war in Iraq. It was relevant, and hell, it wasn't boring. I looked over to him, and his head was resting on the desk. Again. So I poked. Whatdoyouthink! I asked. He asked what we were discussing. Still optimistic (though waning), I repeated the question. Another girl gave her take. I looked back over to him. He was picking at his wart.
Some people are alone for a reason.
Lily
by |
tags:
indifference,
justice,
narcissism,
sloth
|
0
comments
She only rode in elevators. Stairs were too much work. Speaking of, she hated that too. She would wake, yawning, at noon, and then go to bed precisely twelve hours later. She would spend her days lounging listlessly in her bedroom, staring at herself, and curling her toes like a feline tail. Occasionally she would purse her lips, hoping not to see her whiskers in the form of long wrinkles. Lily thought about her eyes, her thighs, and grew quite jealous of the firm and glossy legs of her desk chair, knowing that they would never lose their shape.
She hated weeds, but hated dirt more. Sometimes, when she wasn't looking at herself, she would glance to her garden, and see the ivy growing over her daisies. "Well," she said, "if you squint your eyes hard enough, it all looks the same anyway."
She also loathed spiders. They terrified her. One day she saw one climbing its invisible ladder to the ceiling. Lily would have reached out to snap its silken rope in half, but all of a sudden her petite fingers became bricks, and she didn't have the strength to lift them from her bed. It would be easy, she thought, but I just don't care. Then, her fingers lost their red weight and became long slender piano keys once more. Lily picked up the mirror and began to gaze again.
One day she received a letter in the mail. "Your father has died," it said. The girl read it thrice over before the words took on any weight. And all of a sudden, her hands began to tremble and she could no longer hold the piece of paper, so she threw it away. Walking to the kitchen, she took the dusty keys from the hook, and walked outside.
Lily walked past the garden, past the dirty green ivy choking the roses, and stepped into her car. It didn't start immediately; she hadn't used it in years.
When she finally was on the road, she remembered why that was so. Lily hated traffic, and people (well, people other than her), and especially those who drove convertibles. What narcissists, she thought. In truth, she only hated them because she didn't receive one for her sixteenth birthday.
Lily kept driving, and realized she needed to change lanes. She was behind a convertible. The best way to drive a convertible, she thought, is to not. And if you must see one, drive in front of it so the driver has to smell your fumes. That will teach them. So, she sped past the convertible and looked to her rear view mirror approvingly. And to her horror, she had lines on her face. "No," she said, "whiskers! I have whiskers." She squinted to make them go away. They didn't, they were even worse. They were that hideous spider's legs!
She had enough of driving. She removed her hands from the wheel, and as she was doing so, the convertible behind her slammed into her car, and Lily began her silken ascent into the sky. But the thread snapped. And the girl who hated weeds and dirt landed face first into an overgrown ditch.
She hated weeds, but hated dirt more. Sometimes, when she wasn't looking at herself, she would glance to her garden, and see the ivy growing over her daisies. "Well," she said, "if you squint your eyes hard enough, it all looks the same anyway."
She also loathed spiders. They terrified her. One day she saw one climbing its invisible ladder to the ceiling. Lily would have reached out to snap its silken rope in half, but all of a sudden her petite fingers became bricks, and she didn't have the strength to lift them from her bed. It would be easy, she thought, but I just don't care. Then, her fingers lost their red weight and became long slender piano keys once more. Lily picked up the mirror and began to gaze again.
One day she received a letter in the mail. "Your father has died," it said. The girl read it thrice over before the words took on any weight. And all of a sudden, her hands began to tremble and she could no longer hold the piece of paper, so she threw it away. Walking to the kitchen, she took the dusty keys from the hook, and walked outside.
Lily walked past the garden, past the dirty green ivy choking the roses, and stepped into her car. It didn't start immediately; she hadn't used it in years.
When she finally was on the road, she remembered why that was so. Lily hated traffic, and people (well, people other than her), and especially those who drove convertibles. What narcissists, she thought. In truth, she only hated them because she didn't receive one for her sixteenth birthday.
Lily kept driving, and realized she needed to change lanes. She was behind a convertible. The best way to drive a convertible, she thought, is to not. And if you must see one, drive in front of it so the driver has to smell your fumes. That will teach them. So, she sped past the convertible and looked to her rear view mirror approvingly. And to her horror, she had lines on her face. "No," she said, "whiskers! I have whiskers." She squinted to make them go away. They didn't, they were even worse. They were that hideous spider's legs!
She had enough of driving. She removed her hands from the wheel, and as she was doing so, the convertible behind her slammed into her car, and Lily began her silken ascent into the sky. But the thread snapped. And the girl who hated weeds and dirt landed face first into an overgrown ditch.
Slut
by |
tags:
disappointment,
innocence,
sex
|
1 comments
I remember looking into the mirror and dotting on a slightly brighter shade of lipstick than I normally would.
I remember trying in vain to master a sexy smirk, and then wiping off the lipstick with my right shirt sleeve.
And then, I remember, looking into the mirror and smiling.
I remember the sound my doorknob made when he twisted it open--the brass knob was a little loose and rattled uneasily.
But most of all, I remember the quiet tap the door made when he pushed it closed.
I remember the gentle fluttery feeling of fabric leaving my body like a bird, and that crisp crunching sound when he removed the straps of my bra.
I remember giggling warmly into his ear, because I thought it sounded like it does when you bite into an apple for the first time.
I remember holding his neck and how it felt like a mitt, each vertebrae being specially spaced for my fingers to fasten to.
I remember looking into his eyes, knowing I was ready, and I remember the soft and fuzzy words that were exchanged as we lay our bodies onto the ivory sheets.
I remember my naked lashes locking with his as he lay atop me, and I remember the most tender ease into a pink and effervescent dream.
Champagne.
I remember lying about afterward, warm and soft, and the light pressure of his fingertips playing with my slightly damp, blonde tendrils.
I remember looking down to him, my vision slightly blurred.
My hair was dark, straight, and dirty.
I remember kicking open the door, and slamming it shut.
I remember my comforter like pavement, dark and dry.
I remember his hair like a hedgehog's, dark and dry.
I remember his eyes like abandoned coalmines, dark and dry.
I remember not wanting to touch him, because my hands were so dark and cracked and dry.
In a drunken haze we rolled our bloated bodies onto the bed.
And I remember what wasn't said, and I remember what wasn't felt.
Force and flex, and a dark and dry fuck.
It was over soon.
When he finally left the room, I raised my head to the mirror and saw not a girl, but a slut with a stained smirk. This wasn't champagne, this was cheap beer.
I remember trying in vain to master a sexy smirk, and then wiping off the lipstick with my right shirt sleeve.
And then, I remember, looking into the mirror and smiling.
I remember the sound my doorknob made when he twisted it open--the brass knob was a little loose and rattled uneasily.
But most of all, I remember the quiet tap the door made when he pushed it closed.
I remember the gentle fluttery feeling of fabric leaving my body like a bird, and that crisp crunching sound when he removed the straps of my bra.
I remember giggling warmly into his ear, because I thought it sounded like it does when you bite into an apple for the first time.
I remember holding his neck and how it felt like a mitt, each vertebrae being specially spaced for my fingers to fasten to.
I remember looking into his eyes, knowing I was ready, and I remember the soft and fuzzy words that were exchanged as we lay our bodies onto the ivory sheets.
I remember my naked lashes locking with his as he lay atop me, and I remember the most tender ease into a pink and effervescent dream.
Champagne.
I remember lying about afterward, warm and soft, and the light pressure of his fingertips playing with my slightly damp, blonde tendrils.
I remember looking down to him, my vision slightly blurred.
My hair was dark, straight, and dirty.
I remember kicking open the door, and slamming it shut.
I remember my comforter like pavement, dark and dry.
I remember his hair like a hedgehog's, dark and dry.
I remember his eyes like abandoned coalmines, dark and dry.
I remember not wanting to touch him, because my hands were so dark and cracked and dry.
In a drunken haze we rolled our bloated bodies onto the bed.
And I remember what wasn't said, and I remember what wasn't felt.
Force and flex, and a dark and dry fuck.
It was over soon.
When he finally left the room, I raised my head to the mirror and saw not a girl, but a slut with a stained smirk. This wasn't champagne, this was cheap beer.
La Pluma
by |
tags:
envy,
servility,
wrath
|
0
comments
She had eyes like peacocks, the colors emerald, indigo and amber. When she would cry, she would shed a single exotic feather. People always knew where she was going. And when she would laugh, she would grow tiny, dark peacock feet in both corners of her eyes. Occasionally, she would lose a few feathers due to this, but that was OK-people nearby would collect them and arrange a strange and beautiful bouquet.
Sometimes, though, there was a bit too much of an emerald glint in her eyes, and those peacocks transformed into an insidious and slithery green monster. Her feathers soon lost their softness and became reptilian. Scaly. Those worn and warm peacock feet would disappear, soon to be replaced by dark and squinted lines that resembled black and venomous fangs. If she saw something more remarkable than she, perhaps a feather more exotic and alive, she would seek it, and be it. And in order to be it, she would consume it and swallow the bird whole.
Other times, the indigo would pool and overflow into her irises, and no longer would the regal peacock stay. A different bird would take nest in those two ominous and black holes: a raven. Soft and feathery brows became sharp and rigid daggers in the throes of her wrath. With each brow as a shiny, jagged wing, every furrow and scowl would cause this raven to fly faster, more furiously and fervently until the warm blood of her victim weighed her wings down, making it impossible for them to cut away into the dark sky.
And eventually, when the indigo would dry, and the emerald would fade, the amber was left alone. Weak and sad, it lost its lustre quickly, and each batting of her once-feathery lashes soon resembled the tired and servile clop clop cloppings of a brown mule. Dull, dirty, and sad, she would sight heavily through her nostrils and look slowly to the sky-that is, if she could even see it. The ground was brown, the clouds were white, the sun was yellow, and she was everything and nothing at the same time. Just amber.
It required balance to be something great, she finally decided. She needed the snake, the raven, and even the mule to be a beautiful peacock. But how to do so? The instrument needed to achieve this balance, she decided, was not a scale, not a chemical, and not a different color palette, but una pluma. And so long as she had her pluma, she wrote, she would always remain a peacock.
Sometimes, though, there was a bit too much of an emerald glint in her eyes, and those peacocks transformed into an insidious and slithery green monster. Her feathers soon lost their softness and became reptilian. Scaly. Those worn and warm peacock feet would disappear, soon to be replaced by dark and squinted lines that resembled black and venomous fangs. If she saw something more remarkable than she, perhaps a feather more exotic and alive, she would seek it, and be it. And in order to be it, she would consume it and swallow the bird whole.
Other times, the indigo would pool and overflow into her irises, and no longer would the regal peacock stay. A different bird would take nest in those two ominous and black holes: a raven. Soft and feathery brows became sharp and rigid daggers in the throes of her wrath. With each brow as a shiny, jagged wing, every furrow and scowl would cause this raven to fly faster, more furiously and fervently until the warm blood of her victim weighed her wings down, making it impossible for them to cut away into the dark sky.
And eventually, when the indigo would dry, and the emerald would fade, the amber was left alone. Weak and sad, it lost its lustre quickly, and each batting of her once-feathery lashes soon resembled the tired and servile clop clop cloppings of a brown mule. Dull, dirty, and sad, she would sight heavily through her nostrils and look slowly to the sky-that is, if she could even see it. The ground was brown, the clouds were white, the sun was yellow, and she was everything and nothing at the same time. Just amber.
It required balance to be something great, she finally decided. She needed the snake, the raven, and even the mule to be a beautiful peacock. But how to do so? The instrument needed to achieve this balance, she decided, was not a scale, not a chemical, and not a different color palette, but una pluma. And so long as she had her pluma, she wrote, she would always remain a peacock.
High School in a Nutshell (pardon the melodramatics)
by |
tags:
teenage angst...
|
0
comments
Today I saw some light seep through the cracks
It blinded me
and I've since fallen back to black
Once someone gave me a quiet heart made of mache
and with cold and trembling hands
I ripped it apart and threw it all away
In the mercurial mirror I sucked in
and saw another rib! Finally, another canyon made of skin
I greeted it as a bulb; the first sign of Spring
Then I looked in the mirror and hated myself
and how my clothes did cling
Welcome to my ivory garden
Cold and brittle flowers made of bone
I would tend to it
But I'm still blind from where the light has shone.
It blinded me
and I've since fallen back to black
Once someone gave me a quiet heart made of mache
and with cold and trembling hands
I ripped it apart and threw it all away
In the mercurial mirror I sucked in
and saw another rib! Finally, another canyon made of skin
I greeted it as a bulb; the first sign of Spring
Then I looked in the mirror and hated myself
and how my clothes did cling
Welcome to my ivory garden
Cold and brittle flowers made of bone
I would tend to it
But I'm still blind from where the light has shone.
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