| "I don't know where the sunbeams end and the starlight begins; it�s all a mystery and I don�t know how a man decides what�s right for his own life; it�s all a mystery.� -Fight Test, The Flaming Lips. Chapter I: Getting Fucked �If someone else is suffering enough to write it down When every single word makes sense.�- Sad Songs (Say So Much), Elton John As I was coming up the granite steps to the dorm towers I took notice of the ripped blue foil of a Trojan condom wrapper lying on the stone. The brisk December breezes and snow hadn�t swept the presence from my vision, it stared at me. At this moment I began to understand the wide range of definitions the word �fuck� carried. It wasn�t as if I made some excited discovery, George Carlin made the same observation years earlier. Students at the University had used the word �fuck� to describe almost everything. They did not make love, they �fucked�. They did not become intoxicated, they got �fucked up�. Nor did they get taken advantage of, they �got fucked�. Is was as if an Orwellian society came to power, and the infamous destruction of words spoken of in 1984 finally occurred. It�s result was that every word could be substituted with the word �fuck�. The word �fuck� was everything from an verb, a noun, an adverb, and an adjective. Upstairs, some twenty floors above me, someone was �getting fucked�. Most college kids would envy what was going on somewhere in south tower. The instinctual act of mating. I did not envy them, instead I turned my back on the condom wrapper and walked into the dorms. I could picture it blowing away as the automatic door closed before it. As Kerouac said, I was suffering from some disease which made me feel as if everything were dead. I hadn�t always felt this way. In fact, a long series of events brought me to this conclusion. I started off my college career without a girlfriend and without any strings holding me down in my home town. I looked towards the feel and the groove of college and getting to know people who could become accepting of an eccentric romantic artist like myself. However, I quickly began to notice that these open arms would not belong to my fellow freshman, but upper classmen and facility members. My suitemates spent their spare time blasting re-vamps of disco beats turned rap (utilizing the word �fuck� in almost every shallow metaphor) and �getting fucked up� from pot and liquor. It�s not as if their actions did not have consequences. They nuked their feces in the lounge microwave and punched out my R.A between bouts in the emergency room from alcohol poisoning. I did not look down on the use of drugs and alcohol, I just didn�t like the conclusions they tied up their theses with. I wanted another type of crowd, coffee drinkers instead of vodka drinkers, intellectuals instead of partiers. The quest for these people is what led to my infection from the disease. I met Melinda, an old acquaintance from high school, on campus by some strange coincidence. It was the first year anniversary from the day two aircrafts tore into the World Trade Center towers, killing thousands in their wake. Our grief and confusion over the morbid holiday caused us, ironically enough, to sleep together, and not in the �fucking� definition. For a brief moment I felt as if I had fallen for someone again. I had spent a year without a girlfriend, my separation with the previous one had been painful and the following events, which included the loss of my virginity and becoming emotionally manipulated, drove me into a personal retreat. She told me to be honest with her, to inform her if my feelings grew or subsided. The next day I met Un-named Girl #1 in the cafeteria. I was half-asleep, I didn�t have class until 1:30 on Mondays and for some reason I was up at the God awful hour of 9:30. I sat down with a cup of coffee and began thinking through my coming day when I saw her. She glanced at me for a moment and our eyes met. The brief period we caught each other�s gaze seemed to last hours and I fell in love instantly. She left her seat before I could say anything to her, I retreated to my dorm and told my roommate, John, about my discovery. I didn�t tell John the details, that was too boring. Instead, I read him a poem about the events that transpired entitled �One Moment, One Love�. The most gorgeous brown, the brightest blue. A rainbow of emotions expressed in one glance. Frozen in ice, Frozen in time. Meeting on an emotional plane. Waves, splashing, all in one glance. Polar ice blue, earthly brown. Gagged by intimidation. Silenced by my nerves, rooted by hopeless romanticism. Struggling for words, smiling back, her Back is all I see when she walks away. Her retreating shadow a reflection in my eyeglasses. Shielding sky blue, emerald green. Sand, slipping through webbed fingers. Sand, slipping through the pinhole of the hour glass. It might only happen one time in your life. Two weeks passed and again, in a dream-like state, I ventured to the cafeteria and saw my muse, Un-named Girl #1. This time I sat by her and we conversed. She told me about her major and her boyfriend. I left, heartbroken, never catching her name. I informed Melinda about my find, being honest like she requested I be. She wasn�t flattered by my honesty and never spoke to me again. I later saw her picture on an internet dating site. Meanwhile, I became infatuated with a girl from one of my film classes. Abbie was sophisticated, cute, intelligent, and had a great sense of humor. Everything that demanded that she have a boyfriend. However, her boyfriend, Carl, treated her like an object. I became her confidant during their breakup and her lover during her transitional period. One night, we decided to have sex. It was mechanical and emotionless. It occurred three times and after she left I began to cry. I had incorrectly assumed, for a second time, that sex automatically brought love. To be quite honest, love is what I wanted. Instead, I got fucked. |