Dreams, Crushed (Sorry Buke)
The reading didn’t go as well as I imagined, my readers. Much heavy breathing and stumbling over words. Bad choice on the poems, too. On top of all that, the girl I’ve been interested in for a couple of months turned out to be a bust. We just don’t communicate well… Hell, nobody communicates well. Folks are so boring and yet I’m so nervous around them. Theres no explaining it, my friends, no no.
11:46 pm • 4 December 2013
…Those had been good days, thank you for taking part. I’d told my mother then, “Hey: you know what your son here needs? He needs some self-discipline. He’s got none and that’s why he’s such a lazy, idle boy. But I’m going to make a change, mother,” I told her, “I’m going to sit down at this god forsaken laptop each night and hammer out at least 1000 words, come hell or high tide. I’m going to tell a tale, mother, no matter how personal, or lame, or exquisite (how lovely). Yes mother, your son here is an idle boy no more.” And you know what she did, my readers? She just shrugged me off: “mmm yeah, okay…”
Oh such wonderful, splendid days! How the words had leaked on the page from my inky tongue with ease, and how you my readers just soaked up my embarrassing stories with such gratitude and zeal. They like me, they really like me!
"Your prose, Mr. Quadriplego, it’s utterly delicious. I really could not have another bite… Oh, but please don’t stop, no! Pour your soul out through those fingers, stare into that illuminated screen until the blood in your eyes burst, please!"
And you know what, folks? I loved every second of it. I worshipped those moments as everlasting footsteps in the right direction. Something I haven’t felt in a very, very long time…
You should write a novel, boy. You should write it all down from the start of your pain (you know exactly where it stems). I agreed, and upon waking up at 5 in the morning with a pain in my chest and an urgency of mind, I brewed a pot of coffee and sat down to start a memoir. The title of it in all caps: SOME DAY YOU’LL HATE ME, SO LET’S GET IT OVER WITH.
I knew exactly where to start: New Year’s Eve, 2009, exactly five seconds before the ball dropped, with me and the entire East coast crossing together as one over the threshold into a brand new year, a fresh start—only you weren’t together with everyone else. You were home alone in the dark, shadows cast upon your ceiling by the T.V. showing happy faces in Times Square, and with eight, seven, six seconds left in that insignificant year, you panicked, didn’t you? Oh yes, you panicked alright. So you leaped from off your bed and ran to that steel bar fixed between your bedroom door, and with each second counting down: four, three, two… there you swung onto that bar, locked your knees around its cold steel, and as the T.V. screamed out, “ONE: HAPPY NEW YEAR!” there you were caught crossing the threshold, hanging upside down from that steel bar, with all that blood in your head, with all that loneliness… And you would remain like that for the entire year of 2010—no doubt, the worst year of your life—an entire year spent turned on your head.
The worst year. I’m not a superstitious creature, but I will say now that if I never pulled that little stunt of hanging upside down for the sake of ending the one year, and beginning the new, with a little pizzazz (a pathetic attempt), yes, I would’ve been A-O.K. I would’ve never met the love of my life. I would’ve never lost her two days later. I would’ve never felt compelled to drink at an early age. I would’ve never had my first arrest. I would’ve never been arrested again 6 months later. I would’ve never cried so hard that I collapsed to the floor in a dehydrated heap. My dog would’ve never ran away. I would’ve never left that house, would’ve never went to college. I would’ve never written poems, never put them on that beautiful stranger’s car. I would’ve never written a word because there would’ve been no reason to. I would’ve never suffered, so I would’ve never shared. Yes, I would’ve merely stayed home in my room with the lights turned off, a happy, idle boy. There would’ve been no tragedy upon dramatized tragedy to fill pages upon pages so you readers might like me, because you can’t help but pity me. For I would’ve never became who I am today if it wasn’t for this internal compulsion to impress—no, not you, but her: That girl I’ve thought of every single day since I first met her on April 9th, 2010. That girl I would dedicate my novel to, or otherwise my suicide. Her, the girl I would be forced to give a new name to in my novel (maybe Violet, perhaps Camilla), but who would then come to hear about what ol’ boy Solomon Burrows (my alias) has been up to: “He’s written a novel you say? Why, of course I’ll take a look…” Where she’d read my prose, she’d read about a girl named Violet in a glorious light with a beautiful name, knowing deep down that that character is her, it’s certainly her. She’d feel it in her bones. And she would be so flattered and amazed by the man Solomon Burrows has become that she’d at once rush to me—to him, and beg for another go. “I made a mistake way back when, and I don’t want anyone more than you, Solomon Burrows: now famous poet and novelist and alcoholic, at the clever age of 21.”
Oh, glorious life! Glowing future! Here we go! My calling, fulfilled. I may now continue on in life doing what I love more than life itself: to write, write, write. Now financially free, thanks to the influx of money from my novel’s top-selling status (just over 4 million sold), and Tarantino’s pleading for me to co-write with him on his next big thriller.
"You got it, Quentin. My wife here just adores your films. Violet was actually the one that introduced me to them, yes! One of the many reasons I love her, and I’m sure you’ll love her just the same—oh, excuse me one second, I must answer this call from my publisher:
“‘Hello? On what talk-show, you say? Hm, I suppose I may fit it in… Is that what they’re calling me? Well well well! ‘The fused reincarnation of Dostoyevsky and Bukowski.’ Why, sure, that article title is fine by me! You know, my wife is actually pregnant now—yes yes, thank you, we’re very thrilled. But what a great name for our son: Charles Fyodor Burrows… Ah yes, I like that very much…”
But none of this is true, and none of this will happen. Because you know what I did instead, my readers? Instead of sitting down to write down about that New Year’s eve, 2009? Instead of starting on the rest of my perfect life?
Instead, I did not write one single word. I sat in that chair and hammered out those keys, only to delete every little sentence I wrote, because it just wasn’t good enough. Not for you, not for me, not for her. Every word of it was rubbish. All so forced and bathed in pretense, with obvious attempts to be edgy via words like “cunt.” Jesus Christ. So what if I can’t make a name for myself and my story never gets told? So what if Violet never finds her way back to me? Who’s to care? Hell, who’s even to notice? Most lives fall by the wayside, anyways. Better make room for one more: Solomon Burrows, the loneliest man alive.
11:07 pm • 2 December 2013 • 2 notes
These material junkies
of my suburban town
roll around in their wealth
the same way a dull dog
rolls around in his
Driving through Atlanta
my mom locks the door of
her 2014 cherry red
with its puddle lights &
heated seats &
subscription to SIRIUS FM
and she locks her door
at the sight
of a shivering homeless
who’s not even trying to
come near her car.
For he already knows
he understands best
through his own trials
and errors in this
that the folks with money &
Keurig machines &
free time to brine their
are the ones least likely
to lend out a helping hand—
"NO sir, I did not ask for
a fucking Grande coffee!
I am not impressed!
I asked for a medium:
BLACK AND BURNT!”
Oh… and if I see
one more Goddamned
reality T.V. show
exploit Gary Busey
for his mental misgivings
(due to, mind you,
not drugs but a
or one more scene from
the Big Bang Theory
with their shitty renditions
of 21st century “NERDS”
and hear one more
after some empty ignorant
I’M GOING TO FUCKING LOSE IT!
And I love you both
so much it hurts me
to watch you become
and so I must leave
with no leftovers
or money owed
before it rubs off on me.
So I’m going home
to drink &
jack off &
just be alone
‘cause I can’t seem
to write here anymore…
For what my life needs is
and my family might just be
too rich and deep
in this nonsense
to still be considered
genuine human beings.
1:01 pm • 29 November 2013 • 3 notes
Baby watches intently as I write, write, write…
5:25 pm • 28 November 2013 • 3 notes
Some Day You’ll Hate Me, So Let’s Get it Over With (5)
Traits once considered to be cute and eccentric, now unraveling before my very eyes as tokens to her insanity. Those wild unblinking eyes, never running the risk of missing a moment of life’s beauty. That irrepressible laughter, those big teeth, a boundless love for it all. Her big hands dancing through the air whenever she’d rant on and on about religion, or science, or her own philosophy on life. She was passionate, and thought provoking, and had integrity in her beliefs, and even if not at least her heart was giving her mind a run for its money. At least she gave a damn about things. And I don’t blame her for going crazy that year, it’s bound to happen to anyone that cares enough to open their eyes for even a second to take in the world. I just wish she hadn’t taken to me, of all guys, on this spiritual journey of hers. She deserved better.
After Harper broke up with her boyfriend, I no longer felt at ease with her coming home with me after class. Although I wasn’t any good with women, she made her advances rather clear—the unwarranted compliments on my hair or clothes, the unnecessary touches on the shoulder and wrists. She still flirted within her limits, an unworldly Christian of the flesh. Certainly there had always existed the thought—quite possibly a full-blown fantasy—of stripping the innocence from someone religious, to hear her call out God’s name in vain. But it all felt so deliberately evil, and though I’ve always possessed the compulsion to purposely seek out the wrong, I couldn’t help but imagine that in only a few weeks time Harper would be returning back from this fugue state with a new fresh perspective, and the less offenses committed the easier to plead for forgiveness.
However, if truth be told, I was also scared of two prospects:
1) That if we did have anything physical happened between us, my performance as a male would be so shameful that it might just be the sad experience needed to then convert Harper into a full-blown lesbian.
2) That I had already resolved in my mind that she was a great girl, sure, but not at all the type I could spend any long-term commitment with, and so any intimacy shared between us would only serve to further attach her—all the oxytocin released in women upon reaching orgasm, and all the immediate grief felt in men—and since, by this time, it was becoming more and more evident that this girl was chemically unbalanced, it appeared that frivolous sex with a girl I would see every other day would be an unnecessary risk to take. I really didn’t want to end up one night bleeding to death, pinching the vein in my groin, searching with a flashlight for my severed dick in a field. It just didn’t seem worth it.
So I avoided her at all costs, arriving to and leaving class as late as I could, and if she happened to wait for me afterwards to walk together I would have some bogus excuse on hand for why I could not: I had to go into work early that day, or was meeting up with a friend from out of town, or had to work on a group project in the library or study hall where that contagious happiness of hers was not allowed. Sometimes these excuses worked, but many times she would say, “that’s O.K., I’ve got nothing better to do, anyways. I’ll just walk with you there.” And rather than admit that I was a coward who couldn’t stand to be alone in her, I committed to these lies wholeheartedly. For I would walk to the library, then fake a phone call for what room to meet this fake group in, then walk in and wait for her to leave.
Once, after having committed to my lie about going into work early—granted, on a day when I didn’t have work at all—after following me all the way to my house, Harper continued to follow me in and lay down on my bed.
“I have to get dressed for work,” I told her.
“Go ahead and change,” she said, “I’ll wait and walk you to your car.”
So I put on my uniform, locked the door behind me, went to my car with Harper, then drove to the Shell gas station up the street to smoke cigarettes and wait it out. Since she had countless friends on campus, she would run into at least a dozen of them on nearly every one of our walks. Calculating how long it would take her to walk from my apartment, run into a dozen of her friends, stand around and talk before they inevitably ran out of steam, then reach an area out of view of my complex’s parking lot, I estimated my wait at the gas station to be at least a half hour, if only to be safe. And that whole time I would be brooding, man oh man, when will it end…
Not anytime soon. I don’t know how it happened, whether it was intentional or just some horrible luck, but one of those days after walking me home Harper had managed to befriend the lesbians that lived in the apartment above mine. And they must’ve became friends quite quickly, for in no less than a week after her mentioning she’d met them did I start receiving texts from her, on days I typically had to myself, that she was hanging out right above me, wondering if I was home. But rather than admit that I was becoming terribly frightened of her stalker-ish tendencies and never wished to see her wild unblinking eyes again, I would respond that I was unfortunately out of the house for the night while I was in fact still inside, locking the doors and turning off the lights and keeping my music turned down low. I would sit patiently and listen to those big feet of hers moving, dancing, walking barefoot across the floorboards above me. Her ominous presence sent shivers down my spine. I could not even leave to eat at the dining hall, or have a cigarette on my porch until the coast was clear. And even then I found myself shaky and peering over my shoulder with fright of getting caught.
A hostage, a prisoner, in my own goddamned home! I hated her for what was she doing to me. This was not paranoia. This was not an irrational concern. Nor was this the work of my overwrought mind. This was a threat of indeterminable prospects, a very real problem if she ever caught me in a lie.
But a mistake was bound to be made eventually, and so it was.
* * *
It was the best party I’d ever been to during my time in Kennesaw. Probably because it wasn’t in Kennesaw. It was the annual party thrown by Delta-Tau-Delta: “The Delts of Hazzard.”
The party took place on a rented farm lot over in Woodstock—acres upon acres of land with a barn and a few outhouses to puke in. During the holidays the place functioned as a corn-maze and a pumpkin patch. The party was southern themed. Live country music, confederate flags, pick-up trucks and flannel shirts. Cops had been paid off handsomely. Their job was now to stand around and watch us kids defile the law right in front of their eyes, to hold a 19-year old’s hair back if she ingested too much, and if any other cops of equal integrity were to show up, they were to either join in for a cut or piss the fuck off.
“You can wait for these kids to wreck on their way home, but until then they’re safe.”
Oh yes, the hypocrisy of the police drove me to drink very much that night. I watched them in my peripherals, a beer in hand and still no hair on my face, as I drank and cheered to their lawful incompetence , pissing on fence posts like a real southern gent. My god, how good it felt sticking it to them! (They would get their vengeance, however, only three months later, as I would be stuffed drunk into the back of a cop car and hauled off to jail for the second time in two years.)
I don’t remember how we got home that night. There might’ve been a designated driver, might’ve not. I’m not sure. But we arrived home safely, and I immediately made my way through the apartment to my bed where I collapsed face-first into those white, blissful sheets… Then there came a laugh from behind me from someone standing in my doorway. I couldn’t get up to look, I was too far gone.
“My god, your feet are FILTHY!” came a high-pitched voice, a woman.
“Mmmmmgggghh—” I replied.
“Oh, you’ve got dirt on your bed! Sheesh… I’m gonna wash them, O.K.?”
“Your feet are so GROSS! Ha-ha-ha! Hold on—”
I heard her walk into my bathroom, run the sink water, laughing like a maniac to herself the whole damn time, HA-HA-HA.
I felt afraid for my life, my readers. Harper had finally found me, no less alone and utterly incapacitated. I was too drunk to say anything, or even react at all. The sponge was warm to the touch. I flinched as a sensation rushed through my body—an acceptance of what was happening, but not understanding why—as Harper sponged off my feet, squeezing soap over my toes and bed sheets, then massaging the soles between her fingers. I couldn’t understand why this was happening to me—and yet, at the same time, I didn’t want her to stop.
The washing went on for, if I can remember correctly, about 10 minutes before I found myself then laying on my back with her tongue deep in my mouth. I gave up. I no longer cared to fight. I was drunk and young and filthy, and if she really wanted me that bad that she was willing to befriend those lame-ass lesbos upstairs, wait around my apartment until nearly 3 AM, sneak her way inside my house to then wash my grubby feet with her bare hands, and kiss at my beer soaked mouth—Hell, if she wanted it she could have it. She was a force to be reckoned with, and I was done with it all: she won.
I met her tongue with mine full-force and brought her body in close. Our genitals rubbing hot against one another through the pants. I didn’t care anymore. Dry humping, just like the good ol’ days of middle school. I’ll take what I can get. I’ll give it all. I don’t care anymore, baby, take me all INSIDE!
* * *
I awoke late next morning, alone and disheveled, my mind and body hanging on two different levels. Harper was gone. Even then it was clear that we didn’t have sex, though I didn’t know why. The last I remembered things were going hot and heavy, leading to something more…
Clots of dirt were still pressed deep into my bed. There were streaks of mud running down the edge of my bed where she’d rung out the sponge over my feet. I looked around the room for some sort of explanation for what the night amounted to—for a bucket of puke, or maybe my laptop stolen. Nothing. The memory of last night had simply vanished along with her. I checked my phone. Again: nothing. No explanation. And for some strange reason I still can’t explain, I found myself then missing her, wishing she had stayed the night, wondering where and why she had gone.
* * *
The semester ended only two weeks later, and I never spoke to Harper Kelly again. We both refused to say a word to one another in class, both waiting for the year to be over so we could just move on. Not once did she stop by at my house, or at the lesbians’ above me, in-between those three months of summer before I transferred to UGA. Not once did I receive a call, or text, or even a message via Facebook. And before I knew it even her Facebook page was gone.
I haven’t seen a picture of her for nearly two years. The memory I have of her remains to be murky and insane. And yet, I still find myself thinking of her from time-to-time… for all the insanity she possessed, at least she wasn’t afraid.
3:50 pm • 28 November 2013 • 3 notes
Some Day You’ll Hate Me, So Let’s Get it Over With (4)
That first week of March was KSU’s spring break, a cold and miserable seven days. The whole place turned into even more of a ghost town, aside from the few souls who still loitered about the dorm fountains for hours at a time smoking their cigarettes and texting, with slouches that spoke of them not giving two fucks, but breaching eyeballs that screamed out to passers-by, “Oh please, someone approach me! It’s cold and lonely and I’ve been dragging this pack of cigarettes out all day! I can’t keep asking strangers for a lighter as a way to start a talk—I’ve had one handy all along, don’t you see? Oh please, someone—!”
Some students went to Destin or Myrtle Beach for spring break, despite the horrible weather. Then again, I suppose it didn’t matter to them. Drinking beer underage on a freezing beach among the threats of hurricanes was still a safer place to party than in the Kennesaw dorms. That’s what those tax dollars were paying for, folks! So that Cobb County policemen could swarm and kick in a college dorm door at the first sound of a cracking can, drag a kid away and stuff him in general population with real criminals farting and shivering in the bunk-bed above him, for no more reason than a few sips of beer.
Oh yes, all this nonsense of underage drinking the cops felt they had to keep under control. Yes, while other kids were off in their rooms, a hospital bag of morphine strapped in to their arm; while an elitist fraternity were off stealing the college dean’s golf-cart and driving it straight dead into a wall, abandoning in there. Oh yes, Cobb County, please crack down on the drinking problem in college. Oh yes, Cobb County, protect and serve, Oh yes fuck you!
(I’m sorry, my readers, I don’t mean to get so heated… Maybe I’ll discuss my 2x arrests in the Kennesaw dorms and countless hours spent in jail some time—just not now, no no…)
But for those who didn’t leave for the beach, those students went home to stay with their parents for the week, of whom most likely also lived in Kennesaw, or in Alpharetta, or in some other nearly town only a few exits away.
Again, much better alternative to staying in KSU. At least they got to escape, get a home-cooked meal. I would’ve rather been anywhere but there, alone for a week (save for jail—) Unfortunately I had to stay. Important matters to tend to. I’d been putting off my student teaching for all of the semester—much distraction, much more procrastination—and time was ticking down. So the only time I could schedule to come complete my 20-hours of student teaching was during my spring break with the high schools still in session.
Yes, this was still a time when I wanted to be an English teacher. That is, before my psychology professor (an incredible woman she was, Dr. Schall) saved me from making that huge life mistake, and called me to stay after class one day, following my presentation to the class on the No Child Left Behind act vs. the belief in children’s self-efficacy. I don’t remember if it was any good.
Dr. Schall talked to me afterwards, asked me my pursuits.
“English education,” I told her. She just shook her head tisk, tisk:
“C’mon…” she said, “I see great things in you! English education? You can do better than that…” So I changed my major to psychology after that, right before transferring to UGA. (But hell… then again, if I’m not writing, it’s all the same waste of time.)
Five of those seven days of break were spent sitting in a musky classroom at an underprivileged school in downtown Sandy Springs. And if truth be told, the experience really wasn’t bad at all. I sat and ate lunch in the teacher’s lounge, listened to them talk about their students—who was all right, who was doomed, who was pregnant again and by who. It might’ve just been the location, right outside of the city, but being around those deprived kids really helped put things in perspective: things could always be so much worse.
At the end of that week, Mr. D’Agusto had me write and execute my own lesson plan according to what was being taught. I spent my last day there talking to his class about Darwin’s survival of the fittest theory and its application to Jack London’s The Call of the Wild.
It went O.K.
Mr. D’Agusto approached me after class. Once again: “I see great things in you.”
All these old folks telling me they saw great things in me when I’d never seen any of it… It made me question who was the delusional ones—them, or me?
* * *
…That Monday when everyone returned, things were back to normal. Harper was sitting barefoot, cross-legged on my bed picking at the linens, while I sat in my desk chair at a comfortable distance. She was smiling that big, teethy smile…
When she asked me what I’d done over the break I told her all that written above.
“Pretty unexceptional days,” I said.
“Yeah,” she agreed.
“So what about you? How was your cruise?”
The last we’d spoken one week ago, she told me that she and her family going on a cruise for five days—five whole days of nothing but ocean and sun and some time to clear her head.
“A mental break will surely do you some good,” I told her.
The first night after boarding, Harper befriended a girl named Corey who had liked her name. Harper liked Corey’s name, too.
Corey was two years older. She and her friends were all recent college graduates, and had decided to take a cruise to likewise clear their minds. They’d all finished school but still had no idea what the hell to do. They seemed like nice folks, so when they invited Harper back with them to their suite for some drinks, she agreed to go but also forewarned, “I’m no drinker.”
Of course, it wasn’t long before she was drinking, heavily. Venturing from their suite to the hot tub to the buffet and then back to the hot tub. Drinks were being poured, her parents were no where to be found (particularly her father.)
Hell, I’m just a kid on the verge of a mental breakdown. What’s the harm in letting loose?
The night was getting late. She headed back to her parent’s suite where now both of them were gone.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” the two girls promised.
“I felt a very close and spiritual connection with her,” Harper told me.
That next day, Corey and her friends met up with Harper and the party started again. There’s only so much to do on a cruise. The pattern continued for three more nights. On the last night of the cruise, Harper and Corey found themselves alone. Both still confused out of their wits—from schooling to the future to what the hell was the point of anything—they began to kiss and fondle one another.
“I’ve never done this before,” they both agreed, “but please, keep going…”
And so Harper lost her virginity to Corey that night, or so was told. In all honesty, my readers, I had no idea what that even meant and still don’t. Sure, I understand that they had “sex” together—maybe even multiple times in multiple ways—but as far as female genetalia goes… well, that’s just the thing.
I know, I know, I should’ve asked Harper right then and there to explain it. What it meant to lose your virginity to a girl. But it was a vulnerable time, her confessing this to me all while sitting cross-legged on my bed… I couldn’t help but ponder the thought. But my imagination took me nowhere, neither turned off nor on but rather only confused.
What I do believe, however—knowing Harper’s manner of thinking—I believe she meant she lost her virginity in a sacred sense… or something like that. Maybe not so much the whole pop-and-bleeding aspect, of which some cultures deem to be the true essence of losing one’s virginity… But then again, there are some situations where a girls’ hymen is broken by her riding a horse, or public transit, or experiments with a fountain pen—and they may still be considered virgins—
Well, either way, I suppose this whole discussion is in vain since, upon arriving home from the cruise two days before the end of break, Harper then buried the hatchet (damn it) and finally had sex with John, her boyfriend of three years.
But the time had not been good. John felt so morally torn up afterwards that he began to cry and plead for God’s forgiveness of his sins.
“He had nothing to feel sorry for,” Harper said, “he didn’t even do anything. All he did was lay there…”
I sat there speechless, not a clue what to say.
“I broke up with him yesterday. It needed to be done.”
She wasn’t even looking for consolation anymore. She was simply looking for ways to throw herself down the rabbit hole. It’d been only a week!
“There’s some beauty, I think, in drastic change.”
Still sitting cross-legged on my bed, she leaned in close with that big smile, real close, looking madly into my eyes: “I just needed a break.”
And so began her mental breakdown.
5:50 pm • 27 November 2013 • 1 note
Some people pray to
feel better about things.
Some people drink to
forget how bad things
Some people eat to
distract their thoughts.
Some people run to
do the exact same.
Some folks call up friends
to reminisce about a time
when they both didn’t feel
so god damn alone.
Some folks watch reality T.V.
about others who can’t sing
while some folks wonder:
Why Not Me?
Some folks read books
to kill time
while some take drugs
in an attempt to
Some folks work from
sitting in their desk chairs
using their breaks to
some prettier folks
having sex on camera
for an O.K. wage—
all in a day’s work.
Some adopt pets
Some read the news
Some dye their hair
Some join clubs
Some take photos
Some shop at CostCo
Some drive trucks
Some plant a garden and
Some plant bombs
Some have children while
Some will abduct them.
Some men stalk women
for months at a time
without ever once
learning their name—
but then one day he may
catch an earful of
and since that was his
dead sister’s name
of whom he killed
for resisting his advances
he then feels compelled
to kill this woman the same
and turn her skin into his
since it’s getting cold
and his sister’s
We all have our vices
to get us through the day.
I cope with the horrors
by writing them down.
11:54 am • 27 November 2013 • 2 notes
Some Day You’ll Hate Me, So Let’s Get it Over With (3)
#2: Her name was Harper Kelly, and I’d been enamored with her since the first time I watched her skip barefoot across the campus green.
She had large feet, a naturally beautiful face, blue eyes and blonde hair that hung down past her ass. Amid a perpetual smile ripping at her cheeks, she exhibited the energy of a genuine, free spirit… truly knowing who the hell she was.
It’s supposed to take an entire lifetime to discover who you truly are, and even then some people get so depressed after finding out who they are that they have no other choice than to either kill themselves or wait to die. So how the hell was she so alive and young and content?
Some times watching Harper made me feel furious. At other times, envious. But at all times it had me feeling very below her, hoping that one day I, too, would come to know who I truly was—and wouldn’t then hate myself because of it…
Ah, well… It is, at least, comforting to know that Harper Kelly would turn out to be the most self-confused, emotionally unstable girl I’ve met in my entire life. Which taught me a very valuable lesson about the happiness of strangers: They’re not really happy at all, but rather are suffering just as much as the rest of us.
What a comfort.
* * *
When I walked into class on that first day of the new semester and spotted Harper from across the room, my first reaction was to sit away as far as possible. In my mind, I had conjured up some paranoia that she’d been watching me watch her all those times, and she must’ve believed me to be the worst kind of creep. So rather than seem like a stalker and sit by her, in that moment my mind told me to avoid her, at all costs—forever.
As I sat down on the other side of the room, only then did I realize how ridiculous that whole idea was.
Regret, regret, regret… It already was too late. I’d picked my seat on that first day and thus picked my fate for the remaining semester. I would never get to know that beautiful, barefooted stranger…
I began to pinch my skin in self-resignation, just as a fair-looking girl came into class right as the professor was shutting the door. She kept her eyes low, sat down at my table and shot me a friendly glance, hello.
“Hey!” Harper began to wave in my direction. “Hey, Joanna! Hey!”
She was calling out to the girl next to me who then began waving too, getting ready to say something back, but then cutting herself off as class was about to start.
As they both lowered back into their seats, they exchanged some quick hand gestures and glances, relaying to one another:
Damnit! If I saw you were here I definitely would’ve came sat with you… But hey, no worries. We’ll just sit together on Wednesday. Cool? Excellent!—Oh, I know! This teacher looks like a bitch!…
(She was, in fact, a huge bitch, and also a racist.)
With that I spent the rest of that class getting in good with this fateful savior of mine, Joanna, making jokes and small talk with her in an effort to make a friend, and thus secure a spot with Harper in the next class with no risk of looking like a stalker—we merely have a mutual friend, that’s all!
My plan had worked perfectly, and before I knew it I was getting close to Harper. A lot was learned about her in those following weeks of not paying attention in class:
She wanted to be a science teacher. Her family was rich and from somewhere out West. She didn’t smoke weed or indulge in drugs or even drink alcohol much. She loved animals and babies and the outdoors. She lived a life devoted to Christ, and yet she never pushed her views on others. Although 21-years old, Harper was still a virgin and was merely waiting for the right guy to come along, of whom she figured she might’ve already found. She and her boyfriend, John, an equally religious fanatic, had been together for three years and were still going strong.
She showed me a picture of him once. The guy was built like a goddamned tank and could’ve easily snapped me in half. I think it was at that moment I dropped the whole idea of ever being with her…
Indeed, she did appear to live as beautiful and perfect an existence as I’d first imagined—but as it would turn out, I was only then skimming the surface.
It was after about two months that Harper began walking back with me to my apartment, where she started confiding in me the reality of her life:
She had been raised in a home of religious zealots, in which her father had been caught sneaking around with other women so many times that her mother had resolved to just live with it. And the reason her mother never filed for divorce was due to her fear of judgment—not only from God, but her married friends at the church.
Harper had also lost conviction in her faith. She claimed she could no longer tell the difference between what were genuine ideals, and what were the results of her brainwashed upbringing. If religious faith couldn’t keep her devoted father in one bed, and rather kept her miserable family together for the sake of appearances—what the hell good did faith even serve?
For all that, she also questioned the authenticity of her feelings for John. Was he just as brainwashed as she was? Were these the ideals she wished to instill in her children—these beliefs to abide through extortion and fear? What if she one day changed her mind about this whole connection to Christ and sought to abandon it all? All these restrictions and backwards perspectives… And why hadn’t John ever once pressured her to have sex? Should that even be seen as a righteous quality in him, or just more proof to his loss of the natural world?
Harper once mentioned her one sexual fantasy: to be wholeheartedly raped by a stranger she would never see again, if only to lose the burden of her virginity.
“I’m glad I have you to talk to about this stuff,” she said. “I like you. You’re a good person, I hope you know.”
Yes, indeed… it was a very sad and confusing time for the mind of Harper Kelly, and her confusion was only to grow worse.
* * *
4:13 pm • 26 November 2013
Some Day You’ll Hate Me, So Let’s Get it Over With (2)
…About an hour into the party, primal libidos were beginning to break loose.
Three more folks arrived: Lee, Jacob and Carrie. Jacob both looked and acted like a fruit. He wouldn’t admit it, but you could tell he was a religious conservative, despite the possibility of his loving men. Maybe there was a correlation there? I don’t know. Still, Jacob was a good guy, and his intentions were good.
The same, however, could not be said for Lee.
Lee was another roommate of mine, and things had not been the same between us ever since I walked in on him and his buddy Drew taking turns finger-raping some unconscious girl on our living room couch while that girl’s friend cried outside in the cold. Lee had just shone his big white teeth at me as I stood in the doorway, petrified with disbelief, right before covering my eyes and darting blindly for my room. (It would later be revealed to me, in confidence, that both these girls were still in high school: Lee was 22 and Drew was 23).
There was a knock on the door only a few seconds later.
“Welcome home, roomie! You want in?” Lee asked jokingly (possibly not).
I wanted to choke them both dead with my bare hands and rescue those sad drunken girls from them. But instead I only answered back: “Nah man, I’m good…”
No fucking balls at all.
Only a few minutes later I heard chaos break out from the living room. The girl had come to and puked her guts out all over the couch while Drew was eating her out. He was covered in the hot stuff—vomit in his hair, running down his face. He was steaming with rage. It was incredible. But who could blame her? Puking out your guts seemed like an appropriate reaction to realizing that two strange men were taking turns tasting the juices of your comatose privates.
The couch cushions were gone at the dry cleaners for a week. I avoided Lee and that filthy couch altogether after that.
So yes, tensions between us had been high ever since, though perhaps only on my side. Lee was sucking up to me, trying to still be friendly… making sure he remained in my good graces so I wouldn’t let slip to anyone what I’d witnessed that night—especially not to his girlfriend, “Wifey.”
She deserved better. Most of them do.
As for Carrie: she was a sharp, tough-skinned, fat black girl from New York. She was an art major at KSU. I never understood the point of being an art major at KSU, but her work wasn’t half-bad. There was some solace in that.
We discussed my writings and her art from time-to-time. She liked them a lot and was also quite infatuated with me. She made it well known every time she got a little too much vodka in her system.
I suppose this whole asexuality gag had played into her mind that I was some sort of challenge to overcome, and so Carrie was determined to conquer me. I’d never given into her advances in the slightest. I didn’t even have the guts to toy playfully with her lust. No flirtation, no feeding into it at all.
So after a few drinks, once that drunken routine began of her coming too close or on too strong—indeed, once that human line of intoxication was just about crossed—I would simply make it apparent that I was not interested, and that was that. No animosity, no tears, nothing. She understood my intentions were good. I was just looking out for her best interests… (that, and the fact that I would never hear the end of it).
I always found myself thinking about the shittiness of such situations. For all the time we’d known her, Carrie probably showed more care and compassion towards me than any other girl. She’d always been there for me, always looked out for me, always complimented my writings, even when they were god-awful. And I’m sure of it: given the chance, she would’ve fucked with the passion and grit of a nymph on her deathbed, giving it her all.
She probably would’ve made a great partner for life, too. So why couldn’t I just settle down and be with her? Someone I knew wouldn’t just up and leave like the rest? Why not?
Well shit, folks… it’s all because I believed myself to be deserving of better—deserving of a girl with not only a big brain, but big breasts and a tight stomach as well.
About two hours into the party, Laurie—the best looking of them all—brought out a tube of cherry-red lipstick. One-by-one the girls began to apply it to their lips, then to our hairless bodies.
Libidos were beginning to spill out like mad.
Lee and the worst-looking girl, Margot, snuck off to go fuck in the bathroom. Loud, beastly noises echoed from out the shower. We all laughed and laughed and laughed from outside, pounding on the walls as we cheered them on. Then Lee snuck off and went home to cry.
Red lipstick was everywhere: on skin and pillows and bottles and walls. Ironically enough (or was it?) Jacob the gay was covered the most, from head-to-toe in smeared kisses. You could nearly see the slurring of lips.
The whole scene was becoming too much to handle for me—the beers, the flesh, the lips, the cameras flashing, the lights dimming, the touching, the groping, the one song played over and over again as it melted my brain to leak from my ears.
I had to relax. I propped myself against the kitchen counter.
Where are all my clothes? I thought to myself. Someone must’ve hid them as a joke… Maybe Carrie. Hello, Carrie. Just gimme one second to gather myself and I’ll be fine… No no, Carrie, I’m O.K., really… I’m not going to puke. I’m O.K. I just need a second to rest…
And that’s all I remember of the night before the taste of a vodka-soaked tongue began thrashing through my mouth. And I thrashed right back, if only out of instinct. Her mouth was moist and warm. I hadn’t felt the warmth of lips in over a year. The last time I’d been kissed was by my mom on the cheek, which had then shot me back to the last time I’d been kissed before that, which was by the first and only girl I ever loved on the trunk of my car…
However long the kiss lasted, I do not know. My eyes were shut the entire time because of my inability to assess what the fuck was happening.
I hate to be so insolent, but the whole thing felt parallel to the feeling of merely enjoying a tongue—whether in your mouth or on your genitals—and just going with it… only to then awaken and realize that those good feelings in the dark were merely from the tongue from a dog. So when I opened my eyes and found Carrie’s tongue to be that good feeling, I jumped up like a man on the verge of a bestial wet dream.
That being said, however, because I didn’t want to hurt her feelings, I simply then smiled a drunken smile, moved her aside and stumbled back to the living room.
I wanted to go home but couldn’t. I needed my clothes to leave and they were nowhere to be found. I fell to the couch where Laurie then whispered to me, somewhat seductively, “you could do better than that, you know…”
Jesus Christ, no I couldn’t! And why should I? With who? Laurie? She was just fooled by the sock…
Carrie waited a second before coming over to lay down with me on the couch, but as she came down I got up. And then all Hell broke loose.
“OH, WHAT? SO NOW YOU DON’T WANT ME?” she screamed out.
“You know t’s not like that…”
“NO NO, I GET IT. KISS ME THERE BUT CHANGE YOUR MIND OVER HERE!”
“No, Carrie, I’m just—”
“I SEE HOW IT IS! OH, I GET IT!”
“I’m sorry… I really didn’t mean to—”
“WHY WON’T ANY GUY FUCK ME!”
I had nothing to say after that. She began to cry uncontrollably. Laurie set about to comfort Carrie, shooting me hard glares as if to say, “Oh, you bastard! Why won’t you just suck it up and fuck her?”
Then the other girls joined in with their glares:
“It’s not all about you, you know!” I felt them say.
“She deserves better!”
“You fucking prick!”
The whole scene was a tragedy. I didn’t know what to make of it, what I felt about it… other than I just wanted to go the hell home, clothes or no.
I then spotted my undershirt hanging over the back of a chair. But since I couldn’t muster up the courage to ask Carrie where the rest of them were, I just had to make do.
I wrapped up my face with the shirt to mask my shame-faced identity, and then sprinted from out their apartment to mine, two complexes over. When I arrived I collapsed into my bed and fell immediately asleep.
The next morning I awoke in a disoriented state as the events of last night began rushing back. My bed sheets were stained with red lipstick, and that goddamned Speedo felt like it was cutting me in half.
When I finally managed to leave my room to get a glass of water, Lee was sitting out in the living room.
“What’s up, roomie! How was the rest of last night?”
“Rough,” I answered. He just laughed.
“Did you maybe have any trouble finding your clothes…?” He pointed to the ottoman next to his room where my clothes lay bundled.
I said nothing. Felt nothing. I got my glass of water, walked over to the living room couch to sit down, then reconsidered.
Aw, Hell… I thought to myself, I’m filthy, anyways.
The moment I plopped down onto the couch, I got hit with a big rush of vomit.
11:13 pm • 25 November 2013 • 1 note
Some Day You’ll Hate Me, So Let’s Get it Over With (1)
…It had been two years since my last act of physical intimacy with a girl—and the sheer fact that I just referred to it as that might just be evidence enough that I’m too far-gone.
I don’t remember the exact last time, but it was definitely one of two…
1) My last act of intimacy with a girl, perhaps, was at a very sad excuse for a lingerie party two years ago.
The party was thrown between our group of eight close friends, four guys and four girls. A modest and friendly get-together. Otherwise, I don’t think any of us would’ve had the guts or balls to be seen by strangers in those clothes (or lack thereof). We were a bunch of ugly kids just trying to have a good time.
There were no rules as far as clothing went, but it went as unstated that less was more.Me and the guys (my roommates at the time) took it to heart and resolved to wear nothing more than these camouflage, Speedo-esque undies so tightly suffocating that they revealed every little detail—your dick size, whether you were circumcised, if your balls sagged at different lengths, everything. So we stuffed our camo hammocks with an old sock or two. It was better to keep them guessing, anyways.
When the four of us arrived still fully clothed the girls were already undressed and drinking.
“What gives!” one of them hollered.
“Hey, that’s not fair!” came another.
“Yeah! You fucking wussies, no clothes allowed!”
We looked at one another, laughed and began to strip down. The girls began to cheer with catcalls:
As the clothes came off the music came on. It was all terrible shit from the radio. The same shit you would hear blaring from two or three different cars at a stoplight over your own music. Full of rattling bass and reverb, lyrics encouraging alcoholism and anonymous sex. Impossible lifestyles of the rich and famous. Sometimes I wondered whether it was all just one song, as catchy as the plague, one song just being played over and over and over again to melt the brains of the masses to dancing mush.
But it seemed to be working. After a few more drinks the music sounded better. We all began to dance. Some more folks showed up with beer and followed our lead.
And though the whole scene felt contrived we couldn’t care. Parties like this were just what you did in Kennesaw. There was legislation pushed to keep the lockdown on this place from turning into a college town. They gave us a mall, a campus lawn, a pizzeria with trivia and three Starbucks per street, but no real outlet. The cops and college dean still questioned why us students were getting ourselves into so much trouble… all this nonsense of underage drinking and rapes in the dorms.
“You can tie a monkey’s hands behind his back. You can tape his genitals to the floor, it still won’t make a difference. He’ll find some way around it to do what he wants—or at least he’ll make do.”
So these kinds of parties were all we had. There was nobody above these parties—these sad acts of rebellion. And if there was a guy who felt himself above it all, then he was also to feel quite sorry for himself. While everyone else was smart or stupid enough to not be above it, he would then find himself just sitting at home, half-naked just like the rest of us, but only among his wi-fi and self-pride.
And let me tell you: those are some damned lonely nights…
The lingerie party was fun but also very sad. These girls weren’t the best looking, but then again, neither were we. Us four guys were all hairless and looking half-starved. Our ribs and spinal columns showed sharply from beneath our skin. In those Speedos we looked like a bunch of lost, third world boys. Plus, these girls were not only bigger than us, but also most others—well fed and well kempt, with big breasts but very average looking. Guys didn’t seem to pay them much attention. Even among our group none of us guys showed much interest (I at least had an excuse, as I was referred to as the asexual because of my resistance to any and all hook-ups [at this time I was actively refraining from physical intimacy—soul-searching, as it were—which differs greatly from my current state of simply being scared shitless of it all]).
These girls had brains and personalities, sure, but those qualities don’t come off as quickly. And even given the chance, most guys still don’t care. For that reason they had some very shrunken egos, acting very closed off from the prospects of intimacy with another. They appeared chronically hurt, lacking all trust, but only to those that knew their type well. Otherwise, they seemed to possess the toughest skin, making it even more impossible for another to approach them, and vice versa…
For those who’ve ever known any girls like this (potentially every girl, to a certain degree, though I’m no therapist) there exists a very human line to be crossed once a certain level of alcohol in their system has been reached, as well as the nerve to then use this drunken state as an excuse to un-censor themselves and thus let it all go, with no fear of judgments or rejection, at last permitting their stifled, overflowing libidos to spill loose. And unless there exists a guy there willing to then bite this feminine bullet—his sacrifice: to soak up this vulnerable mess in some private room and tame one of these crazed, horny, fire-breathing dragons (9 times out of 10 there will exist such a guy)—then the whole scene will just carry on and remain calm, cool, collected… Nobody might even be aware of the screeching, crying disaster that’s just been averted (all thanks to the martyr). For if he wasn’t there to plug up that primal hole, that drunken spill of female libido would cause one big fucking mess of the whole scene, I tell you.
And little did I know that’s exactly where this party and I were headed: right into the messy belly of a sobbing, horny beast.
11:41 pm • 24 November 2013 • 1 note
There I was once again:
where each of twenty-six
appear as nothing at all—
Yet when those five
of shy design
were then penned together
in one pretty row
to plainly spell out your name
alike some unworldly code
I then found myself
indeed, some babbling idiot—
whose commitment to living
an isolated existence
of resisting this instinct
to share another’s bones
was then broken amid
two quivering lips
and a rush of hot blood
to a stone.
10:45 am • 24 November 2013 • 1 note
…Back when I was still practicing radiology—
before all the “madness” happened, as they say,
that brings me here before the courts today—
I would be called to read the x-rayed insides of patients;
sometimes before even first learning their name.
And how strangely invading would emerge the occasion:
to make a patient’s acquaintance by way of a radiated image—
to then shake hands with a man,
who’d remain to be nameless;
who’d be oblivious of the killer cyst living within him…
And between all these cases I’d seen, but had not heard—
all these fatal brain tumors, these crippled babies unborn—
these patients may have still existed as human beings to me, sure…
but only according to what was written on some clipboard,
for whether these patients of mine were to live or die,
no longer felt as part of my concern.
I did not mind whether their pain grew worse;
I did not care whether their disorders were cured—
I felt nothing.
And I give you my word, honest folks of the court:
I thought I’d lost all capacity to ever again feel any sense of warmth—
I was a bloodless psychotic lizard,
buried naked beneath a winter storm—
that is to say, before the madness came,
the night I caught sight of my love’s corpse in the morgue.
4:40 pm • 23 November 2013 • 2 notes
An intriguing-looking girl
took a tumble down
on the bus
as she let go
to type out a
with both hands.
Man, did she seem
A friend of mine was
of the most brilliant sunset
there ever was
and he showed me
a particular picture
three times over
“which filter looks
Man, did he seem
A beautiful drunken girl
short with dark hair
and a gap between
standing in front of me
at the show
backed up hard into my
at the first striking note of
as if asking for a
dance and a
then she took out her
and held it
in front of her
in front of me
filming and forcing us
to watch the whole goddamned
through a tiny screen.
Man, was that moment
Having dinner out
with a few good friends
and a stranger
And though I’m broke
I came out for the
joy of spending
with the few folks
I know and still give
a shit about
and then some.
But there’s no
everyone buried deep
in their screens
showing one another
that the other has already seen
And I can’t speak
without a reply
whether what I’ve just said
is truly true.
“Well we have the facts
they mouth from behind
their black boxes
and I’m proven wrong:
Vince Vaughn is not
to be a B-list actor
according to “Roger & Ebert.”
So I shut my mouth
as loud as I can
to drown out the inevitable nonsense
of then discussing
the career and suicide attempt of
Man, was that meal
But maybe I’m no better.
Maybe I’m just as
ruined as them—
on a crisp autumn
typing loud in
angry at others
for having fallen
away from the realness
into the cold dead grasp
I’m here swatting away
flies and bees
and checking my phone
to see if anyone cares
to hear from me
and you better bet this
awful excuse for
will be posted to Facebook
in hopes that someone
will read it
and think of me as
But they surely think
the same way I think
"Man, is that guy
12:24 pm • 19 November 2013 • 2 notes
Shit in the Watering Hole
I was feeling rough.
My body and mind
were falling further
one drink at a time.
Outside of a particular bar
where the strangeness of things
really lets itself slip
a drunken girl
grasping at straws
put her weight against
me and says:
TELL MY FRIEND
TELL MY FRIEND
I HAVEN’T MET
I told her friend,
“she should go home.”
She clung to my arm
and introduced herself
as some slosh of syllables:
Another stranger watching
taps me on the shoulder:
YOU COULD DO BETTER,
I didn’t know,
but I decided to leave
that bar was becoming
I felt myself becoming
less and less.
So what do you do?
You change the setting
in hopes of
some place better
but it’s like going from
one dirty bathroom stall
to the next dirty bathroom
There was live music
coming from another,
so I walked in
to gather myself
by losing myself
in the soothing tunes,
but found myself
by the damn mating
strange men dancing
against strange women
who would then
slyly walk away,
where then the men
on another woman
who would walk away
just the same
until the entire room
other than for me
and the violent dancers.
They looked at one
and left to drink from
So I left the music
to watch some folks
but it was the same damned
shit-storm of pretense
and I just couldn’t compete.
Not that I wasn’t
feigning the same exact
shit as them—
I just couldn’t do it
and that shit was
8:20 pm • 17 November 2013 • 2 notes
Rubbing Bus Rat
There’s a mutual existence
closeness and distance
when taking a bus
cluttered with strangers—
pressed against the
hot sticky skin of
another nameless man or
When I got on the bus
I elected to sit next
to a man
because of the fear
that if I sit with
amid those cramped
that she’ll instantly think:
another public pervert
exploiting sharp turns
to dig his
wet dripping thighs
So I sat with a man
because the only thing
than a stranger’s
When the bus pulled
up to the next stop
I could see nothing
but a flood of women
waiting to get on
And I’m no chump,
so I rose out of my
seat at once
without even a thought
to give my spot up
to whatever girl
sat in it first.
Then fear struck me.
The thought that
already riding the bus
had just seen
this feminine flood
only to then get up
from a perfectly
to then be pushed
all these strangers
They must’ve all thought
of me to be the lowest
some pathetic, sweaty
getting his jollies off
by rubbing his
sticky rat skin
his sticky rat
I began to feel sick
as the cluttered bus
began to roll,
and matters were only
when I turned around
of this feminine sea
to spot an ungentle
now sitting in my forsaken
9:49 pm • 14 November 2013