It’s rare that I can’t seem to find time to write. I find it therapeutic and cardiovascularly advantageous to my left brain. I have orgies with the writ and the wrote and even wield an almighty pen as a dildo. However, lately it seems I’ve been celibate. I spend a majority of my free time studying the words someone else wrote, then re-enacting them in front of a camera. My left brain is but half a brain and can’t seem to multitask, that lazy fuckooze of grey matter.
something I love, countered with something else I love, makes for a very tough competition, and I’m a one girl at a time kinda guy.
The kitchen table in her apartment wasn’t exactly dirty. It wasn’t exactly clean either. It was white with little colored transparent stains on there as if juice dribble had been there. Sprinkled around were tiny shavings of tobacco. I imagined her on some nights spinning the cigarette between her fingers with a coffee mug of vodka cranberry, staring at a notebook like the next words she wrote were just about to pop into place. She spent more time spinning the cigarette than writing, yet she’d always had the talent to concoct the most translucent intros to a story. One day, she had an epiphany, chugged her mug, lit her cigarette and wrote an entire book with nothing but those beautiful intros, and never had to worry about paying for a meal ever again.
“Make yourself at home,” she says, “there’s beer in the fridge, but I’m sure you’ll find that out soon enough.” she laughed. I’d always admired that laugh of hers, it was brief, deep, but womanly. A womanly laugh She went into the restroom as I looked at the photos on her wall. She’d done everything. There were pictures of her as a ballerina, one where it looks like she did stand up comedy in front of a brick wall, planting trees, etc.
“What haven’t you done?” I asked with bolstered volume.
“I haven’t ridden a pink unicorn yet. Wait, I don’t know what you mean.” she shouted back from the restroom.
“I’m looking at your pictures.”
“How dare you!? Those are private, get your eyes off my wall!” She joked, “They were all me in different stages of my life, like you and yours.”
The thing that attracted me most about her was the fact that she spoke like she was reciting song lyrics. It’s in her writing too. She just had this way of taking dreamy lyrics that seemingly have nothing to do with anything, and transformed them into something tangent and real. She was the most clever thief I knew.
The streets were still covered in the dew that lingered the night before. A cold morning blue breeze pierced my winter jacket. The cold cut me like a knife, but I enjoyed it like a nice hot cup of coffee summarized in a sharp tip. This is my masochistic morning ritual, topped off with the spark of a flame hitting my cigarette. I don’t get the lights because I don’t see the point, nor do I see one in the existence of chilled wine. The sun was about to crack open and I’m not sure if I remembered my car keys. I took a deep drag of the cigarette and held it with my lips. Rubbed my hands together rapidly and checked my pockets. Keys rustled in my pocket like a rattle snake in the shrub. I took another drag and left Nora’s porch. Or was it Doreen’s? It was something weird with an “or” in it. There was a drunken revelation about it the night before that I’m unsure if I paid attention to.
Nora. Her father wanted to name her Nina and her mother wanted to name her Alicia. It was either “n” or “a,” so they compromised and met halfway at Nora. “N” or “A,” get it? Well, I’m sure her delivery was great last night, I mean, I remembered it now, right? But that’s really more of a story revolving around how two people can work together for an unforeseen result which inevitably became the ideal result in the end, that two people used a caustic medium and generated an original, untapped method, of naming a child. It’s so fucking cute; I think I’m going to try topping that method when and if I get one of those. Maybe with a raffle out of a top hat, provided I can find a top hat. Argh, it gets aggravating at times when you have to warm up the car in the mornings. It’s fucking cold and it makes me think about pointless shit. Am I the only person in the world that thinks about pointless shit when I am doing absolutely nothing? Waiting for something is considered doing absolutely nothing by medical standards… in my medical book at least.
“Why do you do that?” Asks Dave. Dave is short for David, which is short for David Walberg. No relation to Marky Mark. Slender man, about 5 inches taller than me at about 6’4, skinnier, comically skinnier, like a Who from a Dr. Seuss book, with a 5 o’clock shadow that hadn’t been minded even 24 hours after… well, 5 o’clock. Though awkward in appearance, still more loyal than a hound-dog, and my most trusted confidante. Simply because his opinions seem to be one hundred percent on target with the options and/or solutions I absolutely do not want to explore.
“Do what?” I ask back.
“That thing where you make everyone wake up earlier than you would, then show up late to your own thingie.” Says Dave with an almost blank face, minus the corner of his mouth which is a demeanor he employs when he is about to give away the answer to the question he asked.
“I miscalculated the time….” He proceeds to interrupt. “I’m just fucking with you man. If you weren’t such a nipple about waking me up early, I’d probably be asleep till noon, maybe later. …Most likely later.” He scoffs while turning back into his breakfast cheese-croissant. I’d been having these meets with Dave in the mornings for about three months, yet I’ve never fully understood why. I thought I figured it out once, but can’t seem to remember what I had concluded.
“Well I’m happy to help. At least you make better conversation than a cat. Not as soft, but I’d say just as whimsical.” I reassured him.
I hate these fucking automatic toilet flushers in the public restrooms. If I’m there for too long, they flush by themselves. That arrogant slushing sound only makes it harder for me to go. The city is obviously wasting aquatic resources even when I’m doing number 2. The number 2, that only human interaction you can do in front of another person only if you have complete trust and faith in them. I number fucking 2’ed on this fucking art-noveau shaped porcelain bowl, and it flushed on me. I can feel the vapors reaching back up into my exit chute. Some people can’t stand public displays of affection, some can’t stand public humiliation; but I just can’t stand public toilets.
gahhh….. my face is throbbing. There are these plates slicing into my every thought because of the pain. The general shock finally wore off, and now the stinging in my face is matching the headaches. Whats worse is that I can’t think like I normally do. I’m going to try running 2 miles today with a new roommate, perhaps that’ll jolt some of the blood back into my brain. I feel practically useless also because I mumble. The gogo dance shindig we threw last night just left me feeling like A vegetable. Once the swelling in my face goes down, I’m going to wear a patch eye. Maybe a Hello Kitty one. My mind escapes me temporarily, but I might have been subconsciously wanting a mental vacation. Fuck you and your flashbulbs, snapping my picture again.
Its funny, you said you wanted a man to take care of you, then I chose to mock you and call you a liar, ultimately, how much I don’t need you. But now when I find out something horrible has happened, I discover that it’s you I call first.
You can’t respond like a normal person, and you can’t caress me like a normal person. You can’t make me feel safe at night, nor can you pull the blanket up on me when I shudder in the middle of the night. But if you came back to life sometime soon. Maybe then my lips would sing a different tune.