#88

i have a nice little heart. i assume it's nice. it has continued pumping and pumping away.

my hands are a little too big. they make it hard to play music and so i listen to my heart. beating away, like a drum. a little bongo keeping time to a songwriter's lyrics. sometimes it is very loud, so i hold my breath till i can't hear it anymore. but then i breathe quickly, gasping, and it is a war drum. it is painted and chanting, and pushing its way out, i can see it under my thin skin. then i push on it. push down with my thick hands, my long fingers, ragged nails.

somewhere in the dark recesses of my mind is where i keep my Self. it is better this way.

#87

sitting on the bathroom floor again. better than in a room full of people i barely know.
wish i could say i'm solving problems, working through my issues. i'd like to say that i just needed to get a breath, instead of coming here because it feels better to cry somewhere dirty and lonely.
trying to talk myself into positive thinking; telling myself this will pass too, and something will turn out new and exciting.
everything i think, i've thought before.

#85

i only change things that don't matter.
fire engine red hair. what personality will society extrapolate from me today?
tomorrow i will bite my nails nervously. not a habit; a conscious choice. today was jazz. "i love jazz. i never listen to anything else."
tomorrow maybe screamo. or hardcore.
it'll be a Gap scarf, nail biting, hardcore, maybe a flower behind my ear. i'll quote the art of war in a boho dress.
i will exist in only temporal conditions. contradictions make people uneasy.

#84

the united states government has spent twenty million dollars on psychics over the past 35 years. what makes you say everything's going to be okay? you don't know. it's the most otiose system under the guise of justice i've ever seen.
twenty million dollars. but if i said i had a vision, if i suddenly talk about an out-of-body experience or a message from God, my lawyer would make the case for a mental health plea. i would be locked away.
by the way. i'm gunning for it.

#83

"mom, i was thinking of having a birthday party. is that okay?"
"whatever you want. when's your birthday?"
looking back, i realize that i should have been hurt. surprised at the least. but i was naiive and desperate for approval, so i told her "june 4th. i was hoping you and dad would be there."
"i have things to do. people have expectations you know." whipping her mascara shut and grabbing her plum-colored clutch, she stood and straightened her Vivienne Westwood ensemble.
my mother was, unknowingly, a card-carrying member of the Dunning-Kruger effect club.
maybe i should have just been pleased that she cared enough to ask when it was. nevermind that she didn't remember.

#82

it was counterintuitive.

keep planning. but every plan fell apart.

keep praying. every prayer is answered. what's the point, if the answer is no?

fall in love. your heart will be broken. better to have loved and lost than never loved at all? Tennyson must not have truly loved.

follow your dreams.
maybe dreams are only meant for sleep.

#81

it was her long hair, genetically skinny limbs, and incredible dearth of intellect that drew men to her. a precious lucky few found her off-putting personality... well, off-putting.
but, most of them fell into the stereotype. sucked in to the realm of the "poor-me" syndrome that women use to manipulate. and she was good. oh, she was good at it.
by the time he realized this, it was too late. years passed till he finally looked up; most of his friends had moved on. the few within site were wounded and battle scarred from being neglected too many times, ignored, their advice explained and excused away in her favor.
she remained the same, leaving his life a sad wreckage of what it could have been.

#81

he ordered just the sandwich, not the whole lunch combo. that should have tipped her off. but of course it didn't. a girl like that, you know every argument is ad hominem, indicative of the whole relationship.
they sat in the same booth, in my section, and i guess it was justification for me. sure, i'm predictable- the same place every day, but at least i was getting paid for it. their boredom was self-imposed.
clipped together with a black pen, the papers slid across the table to her.
a glance. she looked him in the face. back down.
she had chicken. unnecessarily, i gave her a steak knife. i approached the table and laid the food down, the knife sitting knowingly on the top.
she was ready to eviscerate him.
i retreated to the back room. i needed a fix.

#80

left on main. second right. third house.

SOLD.
suddenly, it held nothing.

#79

She kissed me right as i was leaving. i mean, really, who does that? what kind of a person does that? hey, great to know you, we've been friends for our whole lives, now you're finally getting out of here. oh wait, let me plant one on the lips!
i'm going to pretend like nothing happened. i'll call her tomorrow... because that's what i would have done anyway. i won't be weird. i won't...
i'm not gonna call her tomorrow! she ought to call me! because she had plenty of time to let me know how she felt.
maybe it was one of those weird girl things. we're just friends. yeah, we're just friends, and that's just how girls express feelings, right? they're always hugging and kissing. they even kiss each other!
ooh. they kiss each oth....
but why did she have to do it when i didn't even have time to react?! i could barely even wave back.
the train's stopping. maybe i should turn back.
should i go back?

#78

the chair let out a bright squeak as he leaned back, satisfactorily. it had been a long day, much like the day before, and the day before that, and the day... you get the point.
it was there, complete, in his hands, so to speak. tiny pixels, code floating around, jumping from one place to another inside his computer, recieving commands and organizing them as quickly as his fingertips could press the keys.
so here it was, years of work, glowing in front of him, highlighting many wrinkles and misplaced facial hair, 942 pages waiting to become more than just pixels and code.

#77

"we were vicious back then weren't we?" she asked.
he looked up from his book. "probably nicer than most."

the pages turned almost on their own. "every night we went to bed late. why, i remember going out at midnight! we were silly back then weren't we?" she asked with a laughing cynicism.
"at least," he turned another monotonous page, "we were alive."